Seven Pieces of Chalk
by Lady Charity
Summary: Arthur enters a school that is haunted by a tragedy. Six people were left behind to pick up the pieces and suffer the guilt. Arthur pieces them together to understand what and why, and hopefully help heal the scars. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

Arthur stepped out of the car, stepped into the school, and had to fight down every urge to step right out again.

He knew high school was considered an oppressive force, but this was downright ridiculous. He could feel himself _suffocate_ right when he entered through the doors.

"Come on, Arthur," he muttered to himself, straightening his jacket. "You've switched schools before. You can do it again. Who knows, maybe you'll only stay in this one for a month before being shipped off to God knows where…"

He suppressed a groan before shifting his backpack onto one shoulder, bracing himself, and finally stepping into the school.

This wasn't natural.

The high school was practically _silent_.

Where were all the rowdy, misbehaving juvenile delinquents? The gossipy girls? The popular bullies?

Dear goodness, he had been watching too many idiotic American movies.

But still, the school was eerily calm. The students maneuvering through the hallways were quiet and stiff, afraid to make eye contact with each other. They barely even noticed Arthur's arrival, which Arthur didn't mind at all. He didn't need another school gaping at his sweater vests or foaming at the mouth at his accent, though admittedly that was a reaction found mostly in American schools than anything else, which he was glad to say he wasn't attending.

Arthur pulled his folded schedule out of his pocket and flattened it out to read it. English class. He certainly needed a good dose of a proper Language Arts class. Ever since he lived in the United States for a brief but painful half a year, he felt as if all his previous knowledge of grammar had been sapped away.

"Pardon me," Arthur said, tapping a student on the shoulder. He turned around, his hair curl nearly batting Arthur on the nose. "Do you know where room two hundred and fifteen is?"

"O-oh!" the student exclaimed. He glanced around nervously as if to catch any predators stalking him. "Yes, I do. That's my class, actually."

"Can you take me there?" Arthur repeated. The young boy nodded feverishly before abruptly taking Arthur by the hand and pulling him forward. Arthur was taken aback by the action, but he couldn't pull his hand away from the other boy's grasp.

"Are you new here?" the student asked as they made their way through the crowded hallway. The student even had to lower his voice to speak as to not disturb the peace.

"Yes," Arthur sighed, following the boy up the stairs to the second floor. "It's rather bothersome to enter halfway through the school year, I'm afraid."

The student nodded, but Arthur highly doubted that he was even listening to him. Arthur shrugged to himself; he didn't expect to be paid attention to. He was the new student after all. No one knew him here, and likewise.

"Here we are," the student announced, nudging Arthur toward a classroom on the second floor. "Go on and introduce yourself to the teacher."

"Thanks," Arthur said genuinely before entering the room. He turned around to face the boy but he had already run off. Arthur frowned to himself. There was certainly something _different_ about this school that he wasn't used to. Pushing the concern aside, he approached the teacher's desk.

"Mrs…." He glimpsed down at the name plate on the desk. "Mrs. Theresa?"

A young woman looked up from her papers to Arthur. "Oh! Arthur Kirkland, aren't you? The new student?"

"Yes," Arthur said. No one else was in the room except him and the teacher.

"Welcome to my English class," she said, smiling kindly. "Ah, your new seat…" She peered over Arthur's shoulder. "Well…the only empty seat we have in this class is—the second seat in the third row."

"Thank you kindly," Arthur said before taking his seat. He sat awkwardly in silence while the teacher returned to her work. He had been in this school building for less than seven minutes and he was already beginning to hate it.

The early bell finally rang. A flurry of quick footsteps sounded out in the halls as students hurried to their first class. Finally, some students were filing into the English class without making as much as a peep. Arthur sighed exasperatedly and shrugged before opening his backpack and extracting his notebooks.

Somebody gave a sharp gasp that surprised Arthur enough to look up immediately. A blond bespectacled boy stood by the doorway, his violet eyes gaping at Arthur as if he saw a ghost. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows confusedly before the boy finally shook back to reality and hastily took his seat behind Arthur. Arthur, bemused by the reaction, turned in his seat toward him.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asked.

"What?" the boy asked, his voice as weak and delicate as a butterfly. "O-oh! Of course…of course." His voice trailed away into nothingness as he directed his gaze to his desk. Arthur pressed on.

"I'm sorry. I must have given you a fright," Arthur said. "Though I can't say I know why…" If it was the eyebrows again, he had no control over it.

"It's fine!" the nervous boy said hurriedly. "It's just…" He hesitated before distracting himself with his pencil pouch. Arthur shrugged before turning back to the front of the room.

But as more and more students entered the classroom, the more uncomfortable Arthur became. The quiet student sitting behind him was not the only one who reacted strangely to Arthur's presence. Some students gaped at him with shock, others raised an eyebrow at him, one particular boy who looked peculiarly like the student who led Arthur to the classroom involuntarily shouted a curse word the moment he saw Arthur. Arthur tried to act as if none of it unnerved him, but he secretly checked his reflection on the back of his calculator, wondering if it really was the eyebrows that frightened everyone.

"Looks like I will fit in perfectly," Arthur muttered dryly to himself.

"It isn't you," a voice perked up beside him. Arthur spun around, surprised. A blond man with wavy and long blond hair was lounging in the desk beside him, his blue eyes scrutinizing Arthur carefully.

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur said, raising an eyebrow.

"It's just the desk you're sitting in, is all," the other said loftily. "We're so used to it being empty."

"People here aren't very much up to change, are they?" Arthur commented lowly. The blond teen gave Arthur a long look before shrugging and conversing with others.

"Oh yes, and Arthur?" Arthur looked up to see Mrs. Theresa before his desk, holding out a small white book. "We've just begun reading this novel. You'll only have to read the first five chapters on your own. There's a sticky note on the back of the front cover—please write your name on it."

"Thank you," Arthur said before taking the book. The title, _Ordinary People_, was plastered in tall, bold letters on the crinkled paperback cover. Arthur turned over the front cover and whipped out his pen to etch his name on it. There was only one other name on it—the previous owner's name. Alfred F. Jones. Arthur grimaced before scratching out that name and marking his own. If that Alfred Jones character was the one who so carelessly reduced the novel to such a dog-eared state, he knew whom _not_ to lend his things.

The late bell rang, signifying the beginning of yet another tiring journey also known as a typical school day. Mrs. Theresa closed the classroom door with a resonating bang.

"All right, class, settle down," she said out of habit, even though the students were already soft-spoken as if they were in a chapel.

"As you can see, we've got a new student joining our crew," Mrs. Theresa said casually, shuffling through the haystacks of papers mounded on her desk. She nodded toward Arthur. "Mr. Kirkland, would you mind passing out these essays? Maybe this way you can learn the names of your classmates while you're at it."

"Took you four weeks to grade all our essays," one snarky student commented.

"You know how I am with essays and students like you all," Mrs. Theresa said, handing Arthur the thick pile of papers. Each essay might have been at least six pages.

"All right, let's see," Arthur sighed, standing at the front of the room. "Francis Bonnefoy?"

"Venez à moi, ma jolie," the blond sitting next to Arthur's seat sang. Arthur frowned at the flowery flurry of confusing French before handing him his essay.

"Lovino Vargas," Arthur announced. An embittered boy with auburn hair and the derogatory words hanging off his tongue raised his hand reluctantly, tearing the essay out of Arthur's hands when he approached him. Arthur also handed his twin Feliciano his essay, who nervously took it as if afraid that Arthur might jump him if he dared.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt?" Arthur read out.

"The one and only," a white-haired teen said, lazily raising a hand in the air. Arthur tossed it at him.

"Matthew Williams Jones?" Arthur said. His mind vaguely flicked toward the yellow post-it note in his book. The quiet blond-haired boy shyly raised his hand. Arthur handed it over before turning to the next essay.

"Alfred F. Jones?" Arthur announced.

It was as if an entire boulder came crashing onto the classroom and squelched even the slightest sound or movement.

For a moment, Arthur thought he had said some horrific curse word. People stiffened or shuddered as if they saw a ghost. No one made a sound; it was as if everyone was holding their breath, afraid to cause a single stir in the room. It felt like the temperature in the room dropped several degrees and froze everyone into ice.

"Um…Alfred F. Jones?" Arthur repeated uncertainly, scanning the room for a sign of acknowledgement. Matthew winced in the back and recoiled deeper into his seat. Lovino glared at the chalkboard, his hands clutching his knees under his desk so tightly they were shaking.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Theresa's voice broke the silence quietly. "Could you give that to me, Mr. Kirkland? He's not in this class anymore."

"I see," Arthur said softly before returning the paper to Mrs. Theresa. He continued passing out the essays as the classroom was trapped in a stiffer silence. Arthur's mind would not leave the event even when the lesson began and he was supposed to be concentrating on the book. Alfred F. Jones…the same one previously owned and ruined the book that was now in Arthur's possession. What was so special about him?

When class ended, there was no excited dash for the door or sighs of relief. Everyone moved like tin soldiers, soulless and empty. Arthur felt extremely exposed and uncertain in the midst of all these strangers. This had to be some sort of alternate reality. Surely he was drugged, kidnapped, and secretly slipped into a world of robots and he was being tested by his fairy friends. This couldn't actually be reality.

"She _would _forget something like that," he overheard Romano mutter to Feliciano. Feliciano bowed his head and quickened his steps. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows but did not raise a question. He doubted that it would make a good impression.

"Um, excuse me?" Arthur tapped Matthew's soldier. Matthew jolted with surprise before turning to Arthur. "I'm terribly sorry, but could you please help me find room one forty-nine? I'm having trouble finding my way here."

"Of course," Matthew said shyly. "Just follow me."

Arthur nodded and obediently dogged Matthew's footsteps. Up close he could see that Matthew's face was a shade grayer than most people and that there were dark, sickly shadows under his violet eyes. He fought down the urge to inquire.

"Matthew Jones, am I correct?" Arthur said casually, giving a try with the small talk.

"Yes," Matthew murmured. "Arthur Kirkland? Where did you move from?"

"The question is where have I not moved from?" Arthur sighed. Matthew tentatively smiled before bowing his head.

"So…" Arthur tried again, though admittedly his willpower was being sapped away by the second. "Does Mrs. Theresa always take a long time to grade essays?"

Matthew licked his lips nervously. "Um, I guess. Well—sort of. Yes, most of the time."

To Arthur's surprise, the cell phone in his backpack suddenly blared God Save the Queen loudly like a bullhorn. In comparison to the deadly silent hallways, it was as loud as the trumpets of Judgment Day. Arthur's face immediately turned beet red as he quickly fished through his backpack. Students cast him confused and rather amused glances as they passed him through the hallway.

"Please—pardon me," Arthur stuttered as he fumbled to pull out his cell phone that was still screaming the British anthem in a horrifying falsetto. He angrily flipped it open and pressed it against his ear.

"Hello, Arthur Kirkland speaking, how may I help you?" he grunted through gritted teeth.

"Jerk!" a familiar voice screeched from the other end, still prepubescent and innocent. "You took my lunch, didn't you?"

Arthur gave an exasperated sigh. "Peter, I'm in the middle of school. You know that."

"It isn't a good enough excuse for you to take my lunch!" Peter Kirkland whined. Arthur squeezed the bridge of his nose frustratingly. Secondary school-aged brothers—how could anyone stand them? "Your lunches are always disgusting because you make them yourself!"

"I'll have you know that spotted dick is delicious!" Arthur snapped. "You should be glad you're eating it. I'm stuck with your plain bread and butter sandwich."

"You could have at least chosen something to eat that had a better name," Peter whined, his voice crackling in the cell phone. "What am I supposed to do if kids ask me what I ate for lunch? Tell them I'm eating _spotted_—"

"I've got to go, Peter!" Arthur said hastily. "I need to get to class! See you after school!" Before Peter could squeeze in another word, Arthur clamped the cell phone shut and let out a sigh.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said through gritted teeth. "My little brother thought it necessary to call me in the middle of class to complain about his lunch."

Matthew cracked a small smile. "How old is he?" he asked as they continued on their way.

"He's twelve," Arthur sighed. "Brothers. Can't live with them…can't live with them still."

Matthew let out a nervous laugh that made Arthur frown with bemusement. Matthew's chuckle was extremely strained as if he could barely force it out.

"Have you got any siblings?" Arthur asked curiously.

Matthew's smile immediately fell from his face. He stared blankly before him as if everything was sapped out of him in a split second. For a moment Arthur was convinced that Matthew must have died walking and all that was left was an animated corpse. It only lasted for a brief moment; Matthew shook back to reality. He glanced at Arthur and hesitated before shaking his head.

"No," he said tiredly. "I don't have any brothers."

He didn't speak for the rest of the way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Anonymous Review Reply: **

**Tea Cup: I wonder where Arthur got his ringtone, ne? 8D Ahaha, I wouldn't categorize this story into the mystery department, because the answer to what happened to Alfred is revealed pretty early in the story…Thanks so much for reading this story! **

**And thank you all for giving this story a chance! It's good to see new and old faces (Pen names?) as well~ :3 **

Arthur was certain that lunch period was designed specifically to separate the popular, fortunate students blessed with friends from the awkward, antisocial outcasts like him.

When all his morning classes were over and he finally fished his lunch sack out of his locker (Peter was right; Arthur had accidentally taken his lunch. Not that Arthur was complaining, since Peter always got a treacle tart included into his meal), he thought that he had at least one moment in that day to relax. The morning classes were hectic; textbooks as heavy as dumbbells were shoved into his arms, consecutive classes were on opposite ends of the school building, and that Francis Bonnefoy character would always appear out of nowhere and either give Arthur a playful slap in the rear or make a crude comment about his eyebrows. However, when Arthur stepped into the commons area where the midday meal was eaten, he took one long stare at it before marching right out again. Everything clashed with him; it was too crowded, too loud, too close and personal for someone who had no one to even talk to. It felt like a crime if he ate there without saying a word, but who was he supposed to converse with?

Instead, Arthur wandered aimlessly through the halls for a good ten minutes before stopping before the music wing. The corridor was peacefully silent, with only the band, choir, and practice rooms to occupy it. Arthur shrugged to himself before entering the music wing. The pianos and clarinets could keep him good enough company. Just for today. Tomorrow he would find an adequate lunch date, he promised himself. Tomorrow.

As he passed a band practice room, Arthur caught sight of color in the corner of his eyes. He glanced curiously through the glass doors to see a familiar teenager lounging by the piano, lazily plunking on the dusty keys. Arthur immediately recognized him as one of his classmates in his English class. He hesitated, having the right mind to move on and find a silent and empty room for himself, but found himself knocking on the door.

What in the world was he doing?

The boy with the white hair looked up curiously. He spotted Arthur and gave him a crooked smile before nudging the door open with his foot. Arthur took the invitation and slipped inside, quickly closing the door behind him.

"You're avoiding the commons?" the teen said teasingly.

"Of course," Arthur said reluctantly. "You too, I presume?"

"I wouldn't call it _avoiding_," the other said. "I prefer 'rescuing myself from the onslaught of conformists and pretentious snobs otherwise known as the student body.'"

"Catchy," Arthur commented, leaning against the wall. "Mind if I rescue myself along with you?"

"Not at all. Be my guest," the white-haired lad said. "Who would pass joining my slice of sanctuary?"

Arthur smiled wryly before pulling a plastic chair from the corner closer to the piano and seating himself on it. His classmate continued carelessly playing the keys.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt, am I correct?" Arthur asked.

"Of course," Gilbert confirmed. "Who else would I be?"

"I don't know," Arthur said.

Gilbert didn't speak or acknowledge the fact that Arthur had spoken to him. He continued playing simple tunes on the piano, his white hand dancing atop the stained and sticky keys.

"And you're Artie Kirkland, right?" Gilbert asked. He put both hands on the piano and began to play adequately.

"Arthur," Arthur said automatically. Everyone found it necessary to shorten his already easy name into something as childish as 'Artie' for some reason.

"Yeah, I know it's Arthur. I'm just calling you Artie for short," Gilbert said dismissively, not catching Arthur's point. The piano, though old and tired after numerous years of being played, still sang a poignant but soothing tune in its crystal voice.

"So you play piano…How long?" Arthur asked, once again putting an effort to small talk as he opened his brown paper sack to eat his lunch.

"Not long," Gilbert said. "After my cousin Roderich began. I prefer the harpsichord."

"No one uses the harpsichord anymore," Arthur laughed.

"It's still a heck lot better than the piano," Gilbert said stubbornly. "I also do the violin. But I don't really practice it a whole lot anymore."

"High school studying gets in the way, huh?" Arthur asked, lifting the plastic bag holding the soft bread and butter sandwich from his sack. The white bread was slightly flattened from being crushed by the apple juice box and pudding. He hurriedly stowed away what he considered childish food from sight.

"You can say that again," Gilbert said. "But we're getting closer and closer to graduation and we can get the heck out of here."

"This place getting too old for you?" Arthur chuckled.

"I just need to get out of here," Gilbert said gruffly. "I don't care where I'm heading, whether it's the highway or right off a cliff. I just have to get as far away from here as possible."

Arthur nodded. He never actually understood that feeling to its fullest; he was always whisked away before he had the chance.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, noting that Gilbert didn't have any food with him.

"I never eat lunch," Gilbert said dismissively, closing the lid over the piano keys. "But thanks anyway."

Arthur only consented to eat the treacle tart and the apple juice box. The butter sandwich and pudding remained untouched. Gilbert entertained himself with Arthur's juice box for a while, much to Arthur's displeasure ("I haven't seen these things since I was four! How do you use these things?" "You suck on it, Gilbert…" "Artie! What vulgar language! I'm surprised!"), until he caught sight of someone outside of the practice room. He immediately stiffened and stood up from the piano bench.

"What's he doing here?" he muttered, his voice barely audible.

Arthur craned his neck to see a very tall student through the glass. His already brawny body looked even larger and foreboding from the thick sweater he wore and the pale scarf around his neck that looked very out of place. Arthur vaguely remembered seeing him in his advanced calculus class, but he never caught the classmate's name.

"Who is that?" Arthur asked. He turned to Gilbert. Gilbert was pressing himself against the wall, his dark red eyes narrowed as he eyed the taller student with great resentment. He looked like a sniper out for the kill, spying on his prey and waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

"You don't want to mess with him," Gilbert said in a low voice. "In fact, don't even look at him."

"Well, that tells me everything," Arthur said dryly. "What's his name?"

"Ivan Braginski," Gilbert said reluctantly. "What a pal he is."

Arthur cast Gilbert a confused look. Gilbert shook his head and let out a dry chuckle.

"Let's just leave. Maybe we'll see Toris somewhere. He's not a conformist or a pretentious snob," Gilbert quipped. "I don't even know why Braginski would be here. He is in any music classes or anything." He glanced at Arthur warily. "Just—be careful, okay?"

"I'll heed the warning," Arthur said with uncertainty. Looking at Braginski through the glass door, he didn't seem any more harmless than a child. Then again, a rhinoceros in the zoo was considerably less formidable than a rhinoceros out in the wild raging toward you with its horn.

Gilbert pushed open the door and beckoned Arthur to follow. Arthur felt like he was partaking in some sort of spy mission as he quietly followed Gilbert out of the room. Gilbert eyed Ivan from the corner of his eyes as they passed him, his muscles tensed as if ready to attack.

Ivan's purple eyes drifted toward the two boys and locked onto Gilbert. Gilbert gritted his teeth and refused to return the gaze. Arthur could feel Gilbert's antipathy radiate from his skin as his steps became more rigid and quickened. Arthur braced himself, expecting Ivan to confront them or attack them physically.

However, Ivan remained rooted at the spot, gazing at Gilbert and Arthur with empty eyes. He opened his mouth as if to speak up, but he never made a sound. When the two were almost out of the music wing, Gilbert cast an uncertain glance back at Ivan over his shoulders. Ivan was already walking away from them, soon disappearing from view. Gilbert chewed on the inside of his lip before pulling Arthur out of the music wing.

"That's different," Gilbert remarked blankly.

"You got me worked up there, you know," Arthur accused. "I expected him to—I don't know—breathe fire on us or shoot arrows out of his mouth."

"He used to," Gilbert snorted. "Throw in a frigid aura around him that seriously nears absolute zero and you've got the general idea."

"What do you mean by that?" Arthur asked.

Gilbert furrowed his eyebrows at Arthur. "He gives people hell. You may think I'm exaggerating or trying to scare you, but I'm not."

"It was hard to tell earlier," Arthur admitted.

"I know it was," Gilbert said, frowning. "I don't trust it. This is like Stalin suddenly blessing his poor and downtrodden people with endless amounts of money and food and a Rolls-Royce each. Something just doesn't click."

"I'm pretty sure there are big differences between Braginski and Stalin," Arthur laughed.

"The only one I can think of is that Braginski is Russian and Stalin was from Georgia," Gilbert said. "Other than that…"

"I suppose you know this from firsthand experience?" Arthur inquired.

Gilbert tilted his head to one side curiously. "Perhaps. Unfortunately." His eyes sharpened suddenly. "I didn't submit to it, believe me. I fought back, but it made things worse. Not just what Braginski started to do to me, but then Alfred thought it would be great to play the 'good guy' and—"

"Alfred?" Arthur interrupted, perking immediately at the familiar name. Gilbert automatically closed his mouth. "Who's Alfred?"

Gilbert hesitated and shrugged resignedly. "Someone from this school."

"I wonder if I have met him before," Arthur said to himself.

"Probably not," Gilbert muttered. He stretched his arms over his head. "He doesn't go here anymore."

"Pity," Arthur said apologetically.

"Meh," Gilbert mumbled. "He decided to leave; what can I say? We all have to leave sometime."

Arthur nodded, though he couldn't quite grasp the words. "Doesn't happen to be Alfred F. Jones, does it?"

"You're quick," Gilbert replied, biting on the inside of his cheek. "Yeah, he left. I guess he's pretty lucky. It's a lot better than here."

"If you're still griping about the problems of pretentious conformists, then I'm afraid that they're everywhere you go," Arthur said lightly. "They breed everywhere."

Gilbert shook his head. The smile slid off his face and he faced forward.

"I remember when my little brother's best friend moved, but he didn't get a chance to say goodbye to him," Arthur said, trying to start some small talk. He wasn't exactly sure where he was going, but he wanted to do anything to close up the gap between two conversations. "We had to go to a funeral instead, I think."

"…Oh," Gilbert said awkwardly. Arthur mentally slapped himself for starting such a grave conversation. Who in the world wanted to talk about funerals? "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's fine," Arthur said heedlessly. He groaned and rubbed his forehead. "That was a lovely conversation starter, wasn't it? Funerals. Boy, do we love talking about them."

Gilbert gave a crooked smile. "Hey, it's one of those conversations that would be memorable. You probably don't have them often."

"Want to start one now?" Arthur said sardonically. "Let's begin with the basics: Ever been to one?"

Gilbert's face hardened for the briefest moment, but even Arthur could immediately tell. He then felt cold dread and regret overflow in him. He was such an _idiot _for starting a morbid conversation like this. Who actually wanted to discuss these things?

"Nope," Gilbert replied shortly. "Never been to one."

"…Ah," Arthur said gawkily. "That's…that's good." He shrugged a shoulder. "Okay. Yes. Let's not pursue a conversation like this again."

Gilbert snickered and playfully shoved Arthur to the side. "Good boy. Good plan." He checked the time on his cell phone. "Hey, we've got time. Maybe we can find Toris somewhere."

"Does Toris not eat in the commons?" Arthur questioned.

"Yes," Gilbert admitted, zipping his jacket. "Well, he used to. In fact, I used to. But we just stopped, you know? He usually eats in random classrooms by himself." Gilbert frowned, trying to fix his stuck zipper. "I don't know why though. I mean, he's got friends during that lunch period eating in the commons, and he used to eat with them. Actually, he used to eat with—" Gilbert licked his lips nervously before shoving his hands into his pockets.

_Alfred?_ thought Arthur, but he held his tongue. What was so special about this kid that he made anyone stop dead in their words when the subject of conversation approached him?

It took them about four classrooms until they finally located Toris Lorinaitis. The small brown-haired boy was taking refuge in an abandoned mathematics classroom, burying himself in studying. Gilbert knocked on the doorway, announcing his arrival. Toris looked up immediately from his work, a little disheveled.

"Ah, it's just you," Toris said, relieved. "I thought it was—you know—"

"No need to fear. He's lurking in the music wing right now," Gilbert said, sitting on top of the teacher's desk. "By the way, this little tyke whom I've taken under my wing is Artie Kirkland. Artie, meet Toris Lorinaitis."

"Taken under your wing?" Arthur repeated, raising an eyebrow skeptically. Gilbert cracked a smile and shrugged. Arthur rolled his eyes at Gilbert before extending a hand to Toris. "Pleasure to meet you."

"L-likewise," Toris said nervously, shaking Arthur's hand.

"Feliks and Raivis keep asking me about you in history," Gilbert informed him. "They all think you're fasting or something because you never come eat with them at lunch anymore."

"Ah," Toris said quietly. He closed his textbook and shoved it into his backpack.

"You haven't already grown tired of them, have you?" Gilbert joked. "You've buddied up with them not that long ago."

"I haven't," Toris mumbled, staring at his notes, but his green eyes didn't actually absorb anything written on them.

"What are you studying?" Arthur asked, noting the many filled notebooks sprawled across two joint desks.

"Philosophy," Toris said, smiling in spite of himself.

"I heard taking this school's philosophy is like suicide," Arthur said, surprised.

Gilbert turned away from the two and gazed absentmindedly out the window. Toris fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat, afraid to look at Arthur in the eye.

"Yeah," he stammered. "Yeah, I suppose it's difficult. More than one would expect."

"I think we better get ready for class," Gilbert cut in automatically, not taking his eyes off the window. "They're as boring as hell, but we've got to slave through them to graduate, right?"

Toris nodded shakily. Arthur immediately had the feeling that he had, once again, said something terribly wrong. He wanted to apologize, but he didn't even know what went wrong. This felt even worse than when he was trying to bat his annoying fairy friend away and ended up accidentally slapping a little girl.

"Yes, probably," Arthur said hurriedly. "In case I get lost again. I don't want to be late for yet another class."

"Pip pip, cheerio, poppet," Gilbert teased. Arthur scoffed and rushed out of the room, desperate to tear away from the sticky web he was trapping himself in. When he was a good distance from the room, he let out a troubled sigh.

How was he supposed to survive another four months in this school if he couldn't even understand it?

* * *

Gilbert watched Arthur's retreating back from the reflection on the glass window. When he was long ago, he let out a loud sigh and slid off the teacher's desk. Toris was quietly gathering his notes and stowing them all in his backpack in a haphazard manner.

"So really," Gilbert said, "why don't you hang out with them anymore?"

Toris remained quiet as if he didn't catch Gilbert's words. Gilbert leaned on the chalkboard, watching Toris carefully.

"I don't know," Toris said so quietly that Gilbert almost missed it. "It feels wrong. I feel wrong."

"Why do you say that?" Gilbert demanded.

Toris shrugged tiredly before zipping closed his backpack. "I just don't know. I really don't. You can ask me all you want. I won't be changing my answer."

"And you think that doing this would redeem yourself somehow?" Gilbert asked. Toris froze. "You don't even know if you even need it."

"Of course I do," Toris said in a shaking voice. "We all must have been a part of the reason, right? If he—if he couldn't even find one—I don't know the word—loophole or exception in this world, that means even I wasn't enough, right?"

"Don't talk like that," Gilbert said swiftly. "If there is anyone out there who deserves most of the blame, it should be—" He stopped himself immediately.

"Who were you going to say?" Toris asked grudgingly. "Ivan?"

"No," Gilbert muttered, turning away from Toris.

_Me._

* * *

"What took you so long?"

Gilbert glared at Ludwig before unlocking the car doors. "I was walking down to the parking lot. Is that a problem?"

"At the pace of a frostbitten sloth?" Ludwig said testily. Gilbert wrenched the door to the driver's seat open and clambered in as his younger brother sat in the passenger's seat. "Why are you still wearing that jacket? It's not even chilly. Aren't you hot?"

"No," Gilbert lied, zipping the jacket up even more. "You should be used to this. I always wear long sleeves."

"I don't understand why you do that," Ludwig griped.

_Good._

"So I take you had a _marvelous_ day at school?" Gilbert said dryly, revving up the engine. "You're practically _glowing_ with happiness."

"It's been a long day," Ludwig muttered, tightening his seat belt as Gilbert pulled the car onto the street. He cast a glance at his older brother and raised an eyebrow. "Seat belt, Gilbert."

Gilbert didn't hear him the first time. Ludwig gritted his teeth in irritation and raised his voice dangerously. "Gilbert! Your seat belt!"

"What about it?" Gilbert said blankly. Ludwig groaned and reached over Gilbert, pulling the seat belt over his body. "What the—stop it, West! I can't see the blinking _road_, for the love of God!"

"I told you to wear your seat belt, didn't I?" Ludwig snapped.

"Our house is five minutes away! I don't need to strap myself down like I'm going to the _moon_ to go back home!"

"A lot can happen in five minutes," Ludwig argued. "It doesn't take an hour to accidentally veer off the road and crash into a tree or another car or a lamppost! Do you _want_ to die?"

Gilbert gripped the steering wheel tightly. He glued his eyes to the windshield wiper, but his mind was far from the road. "If I wanted to die by car, I wouldn't have you riding with me, would I?"

Ludwig clenched his teeth. "The proper answer would be 'no.'"

"Why?" Gilbert said coldly. He was barely fazed by Ludwig's sternness. He was used to it ever since he got a motorcycle.

"I shouldn't have to tell you _why_!" Ludwig exclaimed. "Can't you take better care of yourself? Lately you've been tossing your own life and health back and forth as if it was just a rubber ball!"

Gilbert instinctively pulled down on his long sleeves. "I'm a troublesome stereotypical teenager. What do you expect?"

"I expect better from you," Ludwig said quietly. Gilbert snorted.

"What is it about me that doesn't fit your standards, may I ask?" Gilbert said in a biting voice.

"Why are you like this?" Ludwig snapped. "You keep acting like it's no big deal and it worries me to death. I have to keep chasing after you making sure you don't kill yourself or anything!"

Both Beilschmidt brothers felt a tremor run down their spines. Gilbert was digging his nails into the thick rubber coating of the steering wheel, his lips taut. Ludwig swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously around the car.

_Hypocrite._

"Gilbert—"

"We're home. Happy?" Gilbert said sharply, pulling onto the driveway of their home. He jerked off the seat belt and kicked the car door open. "See? It wasn't that bad."

"Gilbert," Ludwig tried again as he climbed out of the car. "Gilbert, I wasn't thinking about—"

"I get it, I get it," Gilbert said hurriedly, unlocking the front door.

Ludwig tried to say more, but Gilbert waved his hand as if to brush the subject aside. He wouldn't even look back at Ludwig. Ludwig knew there was something Gilbert was holding back, that he was hiding, but he wouldn't even let Ludwig know that he was.

"You weren't like this before," Ludwig mumbled, even though Gilbert was far from earshot.

_Ever since—_

Of course.

Ludwig quietly entered the house and locked the door behind him. He sank into the dark and bone-chilling silence of the house. The home that used to be bursting with Gilbert's laughter and shouts was now as silent as death.

But of course.

It had been thirteen days since it happened.

It had been thirteen days since the home was alive.

It had been even longer since Ludwig saw Gilbert just smile.

_And it's because of me, isn't it?_

**Is it possible to get too obsessive with writing?**

**Just recently I decided in the late evening to make a blog just for the heck of it. However, I didn't make a blog so I could talk about food or art or books or whatever (though food would probably be my first topic if I was blogging for myself). Nah, this blog was so that I could practice writing for a certain fanfiction that may or may not exist.**

**Yeah…it's Gilbert's blog.**

**Don't get excited; it isn't a KESESESE ORE-SAMA kind of blog. I'm using this to find a new characterization of Gilbert, and if any of you know what kind of stories I write…**

**Aha. Ahahaha. Ha. **

**I don't know how long I'll stick to it. **

**So yeah, in my mind, it's Gilbert that's blogging, not me. I kind of doubt anyone would read it; I pretty much am doing it to get a gist of who he is and publicizing it…I don't really know why. The 'start a blog' button looked really tempting. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Lily: Uwauu, I'm happy to here! Thank you for taking time to read!  
**

**Tea Cup: Haha, perhaps I am a bit obsessed with Gilbert. Hmm, nowadays I wonder if I'm making him human the wrong way...Errr, I'm not sure. I'll see ^_^;;. Haha, don't bother about the blog. I've already got bored of the idea. I like to keep things secret in my mind, which can be both a good and bad thing, really. Ahaha, no worries. You'll find out what happens to Alfred pretty soon. Thank you for reading!**

**Krayonela: Wahh, I'm glad to hear that you think this story is interesting! That really encourages me. Twilight Zone...I've only watched one episode of that thing. I think it was called the Monster on Maple Street? That was because of an English class in secondary school though ^_^;; a long time ago. As for a very dark story...hrmm, to be quite honest, I haven't written anything very dark for fanfiction, much less Hetalia. Maybe Sweeney Todd fanfiction, but I actually am not sure if you would call this story dark. Angsty? Heck yes XD. Though it'll be quite different from 'Hello Hurricane'...the writing process was most certainly so. Thank you for reading!  
**

Arthur cursed under his breath when he couldn't get his locker open for the third time today. It was the end of school and he was certain he was going to get locked into the school building because a certain stubborn locker refused to let Arthur retrieve his textbooks. He growled before kicking the locker fiercely, ignoring the confused and humored looked from the passing classmates.

"All right, old sport," Arthur muttered to his locker, turning the lock for the umpteenth time. "Let's strike a deal, shall we? You let me open you up and get what I want, and I won't utterly rip you apart."

The locker remained unfazed, for Arthur still couldn't force it open. Arthur groaned and rested his forehead on the cool metal. He heard giggling in his left ear and he gritted his teeth in annoyance. Oh, sure. Watch him wallow in his desperate misery and don't even try to help. He saw how it was. Classmates surely knew how to extend a helping hand.

"Having a little trouble now, aren't you, Artie?"

Arthur's green eyes widened before he groaned exasperatedly.

"Puck," he muttered spitefully.

The little fairy perched on Arthur's left shoulder chuckled, absolutely tickled at his mischief. Arthur glared at his shoulder, extremely thankful that most of the classmates were already heading home and would not notice what they would _think_ was Arthur hallucinating.

"Either I mistake your shape, or making quite," Arthur recited sourly, "or perhaps you are that _shrewd_ and _knavish_ sprite."

"Named Robin Goodfellow, yes, yes, that's me," Puck said sweetly.

"I haven't the time or the patience to deal with this anymore, Puck," Arthur sighed. "You nearly got me late for class two times already. Not to mention people must have thought I was absolutely bonkers when I started yelling at you and Peaseblossom for vandalizing my notes."

"You shouldn't have yelled then," Puck said sagely. Arthur narrowed his eyes before pointing to his locker. Puck sighed tragically before unlocking the locker.

"Where is Titania when I need her to control you two?" Arthur muttered to himself. Puck scowled at Arthur before pulling the locker open. However, before Arthur could finally claim his books, Puck grabbed one of Arthur's notebooks and flew with lightning speed down the hallway.

"Bloody hell—PUCK! GET BACK HERE!" Arthur darted towards the fairy, dropping his backpack behind. "Puck! Those are important!"

"Catch me if you can!" Puck laughed before disappearing up the stairs. Arthur swallowed down a fountain of curse words before bounding to the next level. "You need to exercise those ancient legs of yours anyway!"

"You wanker!" Arthur spat. He was so close to snatching the notebook away from Puck, but the witty fairy took a swift detour toward the ladder leading to the rooftop of the school.

"Don't you dare," Arthur warned as Puck unlocked the latch. "Don't you even—!" It was too late. Puck had already disappeared onto the rooftop. Arthur slapped his forehead before reluctantly climbing up the ladder.

"Puck!" Arthur snarled, finally grasping the notebook in midair from Puck's grasp. "You are going to _pay_!"

"What are you going to do? Sprinkle me with black magic?" Puck sniggered. "A baby fairy could do more magic than you."

"S-shut up! I'm still learning the ropes!" Arthur snapped. He held the notebook tightly and curiously peered over the edge of the roof. The ground was a far way down and he gulped.

"Well, if you ever get lost on campus and need to find your way…" Puck said lightly, standing on his tiptoes on Arthur's head.

Arthur nodded, gazing over the tops of trees that had seemed so tall when he was on the ground. He got down on his knees and leaned over the edge, placing his life into curiosity's hands. How many floors high was he? Three? Four?

"Wait!"

Arthur yelped and pushed himself away from the edge, his heart hammering like a woodpecker furiously attacking a tree. He whirled around breathless to see a tall blond clambering up onto the roof, his sharp blue eyes wide with horror.

"Don't jump!"

Arthur breathed deeply, still shaken from the sudden outburst. The other boy made to rush over to him, but Arthur tensed and instinctively tried to back away from him in apprehension, edging closer to the sharp drop to the ground.

"Don't!" the other boy repeated, halting immediately in his tracks. He held up his hands as if in surrender, his face distorted with fear. "You don't have to do this! Life will get better, I promise!"

Arthur gave the stranger an incredulous and bemused look. He could hear Puck giggle in the background.

"What are you talking about?" Arthur finally demanded.

The blond raised his eyebrows. "Weren't you—you were going to jump, weren't you?"

"You mean…jump _off_?" Arthur choked out. "Bloody hell—of course not! My life isn't _that_ horrid!"

"Y-you weren't?" the blond stammered.

"Hell no!" Arthur exclaimed, affronted. "Don't you think that if I was actually going to do it, I wouldn't be on my knees as if I was going to do some sort of somersault off the edge of the roof?"

"Of course," the other boy muttered. He looked away, abashed. His cheeks were a very deep shade of red. "Sorry. I was just worried. I saw you out the window on the first floor and I ran all the way up here."

"It would've been easier for you to go out the front door and talk to me from the ground, if you think about it," Arthur pointed out, sliding away from the edge as to not worry the other boy.

"Good point," the blond said. "I just got this horrible déjà vu that told me to get up here before—" He glanced awkwardly at Arthur before clearing his throat."Ludwig Beilschmidt. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm sorry about that whole incident." He extended a hand.

"Arthur Kirkland. The fault is all mine. I shouldn't even be up here," Arthur replied, shaking Ludwig's hand. "Beilschmidt, you say? You don't happen to be related to Gilbert Beilschmidt, do you?"

"He's my older brother," Ludwig said passively. "Is he in your classes?"

"Several of them," Arthur said. "He's been teaching me the ropes about this school, so I'm quite grateful."

"Ah," Ludwig said shortly. "Strange. He never told me he was adopting a new student."

"Well, I suppose there isn't much about me to talk about," Arthur said embarrassedly.

"No, it probably isn't that," Ludwig sighed. "He never talks to me about anything anymore."

"Oh…" Arthur said at length. "Well, he did mention that he had a little brother several times."

"He was probably complaining about me, then," Ludwig said ruefully. Arthur didn't reply because Ludwig spoke the truth. Most of the time, if Gilbert did mention his little brother (which was only about twice in reality, not several) it was to emphasize how different they were from each other.

"He's the kind of guy that makes you almost afraid of talking to," Gilbert had said once in study hall, so casually that he might as well have been talking about the weather. "Like, you're afraid of doing anything—what you say, what you do, what you think—it feels like he'll mock you for it."

"Well, brothers will be brothers like that," Arthur said weakly. "I mean, my little brother Peter calls me a jerk all the time and finds it necessary to announce all my faults to everyone he meets. It's all part of the lovely bond called family."

Ludwig smiled and shrugged. "Perhaps. But Gilbert and I aren't exactly in the position in which we just call each other names."

Arthur shrugged a shoulder and absentmindedly flipped through his notebook, making sure that Puck didn't secretly rip any important notes out.

"Seems like the stereotypical brother personality type, doesn't it?" Arthur said jokingly. "One brother is the outgoing type while the other is the shyer, more distant one."

"Perhaps," Ludwig agreed. "Gilbert certainly was more gregarious than I am."

"Oh," Arthur said with uncertainty. "I was actually calling Gilbert the distant one…"

"Really?" Ludwig asked, shocked. "You are pulling my leg, aren't you? Gilbert is never shy."

"Well, you actually went and talked to me first, so I sort of thought you more sociable," Arthur admitted shamefacedly. "Though admittedly it was because you thought I was going to do myself in."

"But Gilbert was almost always known to be the biggest extrovert in his grade," Ludwig said confusedly. "Why do you say he's reclusive?"

"Maybe I'm just making bad assumptions," Arthur said quickly. "I've only known him for what—a week? It's just that I only ever see him talk to Toris or me—no one else. And he never eats lunch in the commons as to avoid people."

"I never knew that," Ludwig said anxiously. Arthur groaned inwardly; what if he had accidentally gave Ludwig a secret Gilbert was trying so hard to hide? He had the worst of luck. "But what about Antonio and Francis? Those three were best friends since secondary school!"

Arthur vaguely knew of Antonio. He could see his sad green eyes and his mouth drawn to a thin line in physics class, dwelling in silence. It wasn't too easy to notice though; most of the classmates were rather quiet.

"I've never seen those three together alone before," Arthur confessed. "But like I said before, I've only been here for a brief week. And I don't see him all the time, so he probably is with others while I'm gone."

Ludwig pursed his lips and looked away from Arthur. How did this new student know so much more about Gilbert now than Ludwig ever could guess? It wasn't always like this before, but now it was as if Gilbert had raised a wall in between them, a wall of glass so that Ludwig could see Gilbert and notice the painful changes in his brother, but he could never reach out to him.

"But I did notice," Ludwig said softly, more to himself than to Arthur. "I noticed something changed in him, but he won't even hint it to me."

"Did uh…did something happen to him?" Arthur asked. "I mean, people change when situations arise…"

Ludwig didn't answer Arthur. He let out a sigh before craning his head to the sky. "You're right," he mumbled. "Too right."

He did not continue his point, so Arthur tactfully did not pursue the subject. Ludwig noticed the discomfort between the two and coughed. He rubbed the back of his neck uneasily before clearing his throat once more and speaking up again.

"So—are you enjoying this school? I mean, is it any different from the other school you went to?"

"This place is a lot different," Arthur admitted. "I mean, the school system is quite similar, but it's the people here. I thought teenagers in this generation would be—how do I put it?—rowdier, louder, _happier_. But everyone here is so silent. At least, the people in my grade and classes. It's like they're in a funeral."

Ludwig opened his mouth to speak but hesitated and closed it again. He nodded slowly and fidgeted with his jacket.

"More or less, at least," Arthur added lightly. "There's nothing like a funeral, I'll tell you. Gilbert is lucky he's never been to one."

"What?" Ludwig piped up, turning sharply to Arthur.

"Has Gilbert never been to a funeral?" Arthur asked confusedly.

"He has," Ludwig said slowly, furrowing his eyebrows at Arthur. "What made you think he didn't?"

"I—uh, I was just being my stupid, assuming self," Arthur stammered. "Terrible of me. I'm sorry." His mind was still trying to piece the two clashing contradictions together. He hastily checked the time on his cell phone. "I should get going. I must be keeping you, anyway. I apologize."

"No need," Ludwig said. "I'll see you around."

"Y-yeah," Arthur muttered, hurrying down the ladder off the roof. He hurried away from the ladder until he was far from Ludwig's earshot before halting.

_Why did Gilbert lie to me? _

Arthur trudged back to his abandoned backpack, throwing his battered notebook inside before strapping it on his back and making his way towards the parking lot.

True, they had that conversation when Arthur had just met Gilbert, so it would be natural for Gilbert to not reveal his entire life's story to him, but it didn't seem necessary to have to lie about going to funerals or not.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he didn't notice the tall student before him until he walked right into him.

"O-oh! I'm sorry—" Arthur looked up and hesitated. He immediately recognized those wide purple eyes and that thick scarf that looked extremely out of place. He clenched his teeth and quickly stepped back. Ivan Braginski stared down at him in an almost quizzical manner.

"Pardon me," Arthur coughed, backing away quickly. He warily kept a steady gaze on Ivan as if he was a vicious neighborhood dog that Arthur was passing. He half expected Ivan to make a scathing retort or attack him brutally, even though the first time he ran into Ivan was passive.

"You're scared of me, aren't you?"

The question took Arthur by surprise. He paused in his discreet attempt to escape and frowned at Ivan. Ivan was watching him closely, still rooted to the spot. Arthur shrugged stiffly, gripping the straps of his backpack tighter in case he needed to slip it right off his shoulders and swing it at Ivan like a flail in case the latter tried to make a move.

"Why do you say that?" Arthur said carefully.

Ivan gave Arthur a noncommittal smile, as if he already knew everything in Arthur's mind.

"I'm not surprised," Ivan said as if Arthur had confirmed everything to him. "I scare everyone."

_Not without good reason_, Arthur thought grimly, noting Ivan's extremely large and powerful build. Everyone in the hallways and classes that passed him always shuddered. It was as if was exerting a suffocating and dark aura that chilled everyone.

"That's good to know," Arthur said shortly, trying to pass the corner. "Maybe you can find work at a haunted house; they'd hire you in a second." He tried to make an escape, but something held him back. An invisible hand grabbed him by the shoulder and made him stay behind.

Ivan did not even chuckle. He shrugged forlornly and leaned against the wall. Arthur let out an exasperated sigh and remained rooted at the spot. It would be 'ungentlemanly' to just walk on indifferently.

"Well, if you're wondering _why_ everyone is scared of you—" he began.

"I already know," Ivan interrupted. Arthur recoiled, narrowing his eyes. "It's obvious, da? Even you know. I saw you with Gilbert, after all."

Arthur didn't like the sound of Ivan's voice at all. It was light and calm but Arthur felt that there was a danger slithering beneath the words, threatening to strike. He kept his calm composure nonetheless.

"All right. Fine," Arthur said shortly. "I know you're a bully of some sort. Are you going to terrorize me now? Because I can assure you, I've been to approximately seven different schools and faced seven different types of bullies. You'll just be another to add to the collection."

Ivan eyed Arthur, but not in an accusatory manner. Arthur glared defiantly back. Ivan slowly shook his head, and something shattered in his purple eyes. Arthur stepped back, surprised.

"Why do you say that?" Ivan asked quietly. "How can I now?"

Arthur bit his lip nervously. Was this some sort of trick? He had vaguely heard from Gilbert some things about Ivan, and how he practically threatened the entire school body. Surely this was just another way to reel in another victim.

"Don't ask me," Arthur said dismissively. He wanted to go back home very badly. He was stuck in this insufferable school building for far too long. "I don't know anything about you. You're just another classmate to me." He shrugged one shoulder and held out a hand. "So let's keep it sweet and simple. I'm Arthur Kirkland. Pleased to meet you."

Ivan stared at Arthur's hand before backing away, to Arthur's surprise. Ivan bit his lip, refusing to look Arthur in the eye.

"You shouldn't be friends with me," Ivan said calmly. Arthur raised an eyebrow curiously.

"I believe I have the right to choose who I want to be acquainted with," Arthur said skeptically.

"That isn't it," said Ivan. "I wouldn't be friends with me."

Arthur lowered his hand, confused. This was not at all like the intimidating and merciless tormentor that had been described to him before.

"I've got to go," Arthur said hurriedly, edging away. "Er—lovely chatting with you and all. I'll see you in class tomorrow."

Ivan remained silent for a moment before sighing and nodding. Arthur took that as a proper goodbye and hurried away, not even looking back.

Why did everyone in this school confuse him?

* * *

Ivan watched Arthur's retreating back silently, feeling a strange pressure against his nerves. Guilt was coursing through his veins, weighing him down with its heavy, lonesome burden. It was numbing but its weight was painful. He was thankful that he was alone for once.

He had always been afraid of being alone, but now he welcomed it warmly.

When he was alone, he no longer felt compelled to act like everything was under his control.

Even his emotions.

He finally turned on his heel and slowly walked toward the opposite direction. His footsteps echoed through the shiny hallway. He dwelt in the loneliness that he could control. Every sound, every movement, every emotion was his to control when there was no one else to influence it.

But Ivan wasn't sure if he liked control anymore.

Control killed.

It murdered.

He had control.

He killed.

He murdered.

A monster.

Ivan took in a deep breath before letting out a heavy sigh.

But it didn't matter if he finally recognized it, did it? What was done was done. He couldn't reform the past.

Was it his fault?

There was no question. No competition. No other argument.

It had to have been his fault.

Ivan swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling very dry. He bent down over a water fountain and desperately gulped down cold, metallic water. It didn't help a bit.

How long had it been?

Almost twenty-one days.

**Arthur's fairies are named after the characters from 'Midsummer Night's Dream' by William Shakespeare~ **

**I already gave up on the blog idea. Ahahaha...**

**Fleshing it out before I am even fleshing it out makes me disillusioned, so I stopped. Thank goodness I am not as flitty for fanfiction :'D.**

**By the way, is the pairing CanadaxBelgium existent on Fanfiction? Because now that I think about it, it's kinda cute...~**

**Oh, and you know how I said that I had a Modern Day PruHun fic idea in the back of my mind?**

**Well, it's about to get some company...out of NOWHERE, I suddenly think up of ANOTHER modern day Hetalia fic that is tempting to write.**

**Gosh, so many story ideas I'm dying to write, so little time...I don't know if I will write that one just yet, but it's developing in my mind whether I like it or not...  
**

**Oh boy…the next chapter…**

**I had fun writing for Lovino. :3 **


	4. Chapter 4

**GUESS WHAT?**

**YESTERDAY, I GOT TO SEE ONE OF MY FAVORITE WRITERS TIM O'BRIEN.**

**He was speaking at a college because it's the twentieth anniversary of his famous work _The Things They Carried_.  
**

**He signed my book and talked to me a bit, and I gave him a short story that I wrote and he'd said he will read it.**

**So. Happy. **

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Tea Cup: One of these days I should write a story that doesn't have Gilbert in it…nothing wrong with him, but it would be nice to branch off and delve into other characters :D. Haha, I didn't even notice that Ludwig could be confused with Alfred until I reread the chapter before publishing it. Oops~ As for Francis and Antonio…well, time passes and things just fall apart, is the best I can say. Oh, and keep an eye on Puck~ **

"Are you serious?"

"No, of course I'm not," Arthur said sardonically, dropping his backpack onto his desk. "I'm just trying to pull your leg to see you foam at the mouth in utter shock."

"Geez, what for?" Gilbert grumbled. "It's early in the morning. I can't take stuff like that at this time."

"You dunce," Arthur muttered. "Of course I was serious! Why would I tell you something solemn and then not be serious about it?"

"But you just said—"

"It's this funny thing called 'sarcasm,' Gilbert. You should try learning it someday."

Gilbert scowled before digging for his book in his backpack. "But Ivan intimidates everyone. Why did he leave you alone?"

"I wondered the same thing, considering the things you told me about him," Arthur admitted. "Though admittedly, you didn't tell me all that much."

"There's nothing to delve into the details about," Gilbert said quickly. "I just don't like him for many reasons. And I'm not the only one. But you said he didn't want you to be friends with him, or something like that?" He frowned. "You probably won't believe anything I say after that, then. Maybe that's why he's acting like that."

"Try me. What were you going to say?" Arthur challenged.

"Some of the victims are victims because they won't…'become one with him,'" Gilbert muttered, using his fingers for quotation marks for emphasis. "Take Toris, Eduard, and Raivis for example. Ivan tried to force them into becoming his friends. They sort of tried for a little but then realized how much of a—a jerk he is and tried to break it to him nicely. After that, Ivan practically tortured them."

"Why don't they report him?" Arthur asked. "Then it would be fixed, wouldn't it?"

Gilbert chuckled wryly. "If all it took to stop a bullying problem was to tell a teacher, schools all over the world would be more peaceful, wouldn't they? No. He's not the 'give me your lunch money' bully that you always hear about. He's worse."

"Who is worse, him or Big Brother?" Arthur asked.

Gilbert frowned at Arthur. "You think I'm making this all up, don't you?"

Before Arthur could respond, the late bell for the first class cut him short. Gilbert returned to his seat as the class came to order, taking out their paperback novels as Mrs. Theresa shut the door with a resounding bang.

"All right, class, turn to chapter thirteen. We're going to analyze what you all read for homework last night," Mrs. Theresa announced.

The class did so without verbal complaint, but by looking around in the class, Arthur immediately could tell that some were none too pleased. Lovino was glaring at the book as if he was on the right mind to burn it, but he had been looking at _Ordinary People_ that way since the very beginning. Matthew looked like he was in pain as he flipped the pages.

"Now, what kind of mood did you get from this chapter?" Mrs. Theresa asked the class.

"Shitty," Lovino piped up flatly.

"Chaotic," Gilbert added.

"Depressing," Antonio said quietly.

"Unreasonable," Arthur couldn't help but say.

"Why do you say it is unreasonable?" Mrs. Theresa asked curiously.

"I mean, I suppose it's a little harder for me to understand the mother—Beth's—point of view, but I personally have to side with Conrad and Cal in this," Arthur admitted. "I don't understand why Beth thinks Conrad is manipulating her. It seems absurd to me."

"I agree," Feliciano said softly, his face hidden in his book. "I don't think—well, it doesn't seem—not to me at least—that she's making an effort to fix things."

"It feels like she expects things to just fall into place without her doing anything," Gilbert put in his two cents. "But like hell that ever works."

"Language, students," Mrs. Theresa said warningly. Gilbert shrugged indifferently.

"But I suppose that's the thing, isn't it?" Antonio said. "It was her opinion, so obviously no one else but she will understand it…right?"

"Does everyone understand what exactly happened to the family by now?" Mrs. Theresa asked. "What the author does is that she never actually outright says what happens. She gives clues about it piece by piece as the story progresses."

"It was obvious what happened since the first chapter," Lovino grumbled. "It may have been cool and witty for the first couple chapters, but afterward it's just annoying. It's like the writer thinks she is being so mysterious by giving up all these clues but never just stating what happens."

"You'd say that," Francis said smoothly. "You'd say anything bad about the book. You always hated it."

"Of course I do," Lovino grumbled. "I hate everyone in this stupid book."

"Everyone?" Arthur asked. Mrs. Theresa's original purpose in this lesson was already long forgotten. "Even the ones you aren't supposed to hate? I mean—I can understand Beth, but even Cal and Conrad?"

"_Especially_ Conrad!" Lovino growled. "Dammit—the hell did he do all that shit for?"

"So does that mean you're on Beth's side on this chapter?" Antonio asked tentatively.

"No! I'm not on anyone's side!" Lovino snapped. "Can't I just be on my own side? Beth is an idiot in here as well. They all are."

"Why do you think that?" Mrs. Theresa inquired.

"For starters, why the _fuck_ are we reading this book?" Lovino shouted. Mrs. Theresa recoiled from the outburst. "Of all books, why _this_ one?" His face was distorted in absolute anger.

"It is part of the school protocol—" Mrs. Theresa tried to explain.

"Hang the school protocol!" Lovino exclaimed. His classmates winced at his words, even though Arthur was still unfazed by it.

"Mr. Vargas, we are going to continue discussing this book whether you enjoy it or not," Mrs. Theresa said calmly. "Now, what is it about Conrad that you dislike?"

Lovino gritted his teeth. Feliciano put a worrying hand on his arm, but Lovino jerked his arm away. Feliciano shrunk in his seat and hid behind his book once more, trembling.

"He doesn't think about others," Lovino said in a low voice. "He doesn't think about the _consequences_ of his actions or anything. He was—he was selfish!"

"I didn't think he was selfish," Matthew suddenly said quietly, his eyes downcast.

"Why not?" Lovino challenged. "I mean, his family was already depressed beyond belief before he tried to do his little disappearing act. They already lost one son, and then he decided out of nowhere that hey! Maybe it's a good idea if he tried to do himself in!"

Matthew winced and clenched his teeth. Others around Lovino shot disbelieving or angered looks. Arthur felt like he was caught in between a war he didn't understand. He could only stare at the tennis match argument back and forth, back and forth.

"He didn't do it out of spite," Matthew said in a shaking voice. "Of course suicide is a personal thing; how are we supposed to understand how another person truly feels?" He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his thin throat. "If people could understand, don't you think they'd be able to stop it? Maybe we could have been able to do something that would help!"

Lovino hesitated. He licked his lips nervously, wondering if he should swallow down his words now. But he couldn't reel them back in. "Didn't he even think about how this would affect the family, though? Losing one child is bad enough. Now they were this close to losing both their sons! Why didn't he think about that? Didn't he think about everyone he was leaving behind? His friends? Schoolmates?"

"That's what depression does," Matthew said lowly. "It gives you no hope. Maybe Conrad thought no one would care if he killed himself. Maybe he thought he was doing the right thing. I don't know; do we ever know why someone wants to commit suicide? I wish we did." Matthew's voice rose and Arthur immediately knew that this conversation was straying far from the book. "If we knew, maybe we could stop all the suicides around the world, couldn't we?"

"It says plain in the book those weren't his reasons," Lovino argued. "Because suicide is certainly selfless and honorable—this isn't feudal Japan anymore!"

"Not everyone who commits suicide is selfish and ignorant either!" Matthew protested. His voice sounded like it was being torn apart. "Just imagine it, won't you? Pretend—pretend Feliciano got killed! Maybe you won't commit suicide, but it's the worst feeling in the world, all right? You're depressed and you're hurt and you're confused—everything is just wrong! And all you want is for that to end!"

"Boys," Mrs. Theresa tried to interrupt, but her voice was drowned out.

"But what do you think that feels like to everyone else?" Lovino argued, now on his feet. "Everyone now is left wondering, what the heck happened? Did we mess up? Am I wrong? And now that horrible—that horrible, shitty feeling is spread to everyone! And it's all because Alfred—"

"BOYS!" Mrs. Theresa said loudly. Lovino and Matthew finally quieted, breathing heavily from their outburst. Arthur blinked several times confusedly. Was it just him, or did Lovino say 'Alfred' and not the character's name? "That is enough yelling! We're almost out of time—" There was more than half an hour left in class. "—and we need to move on. Take out your work packets and complete the questions from chapters eleven to thirteen."

There was a thick, sour silence left behind. Everyone was stealing second glances at each other, looking rather pale and sick. Arthur silently took his packet out of his notebook, frowning. This must have been the same Alfred from the sticky note in his book, the same Alfred whose name was on that essay that was never passed back, whom Gilbert had so briefly mentioned. But why did he always crop up everywhere but came with no story, no background, no explanation?

The question would not leave his head as he slaved through his work. After the class finally ended, he quietly snuck up to Francis, who was walking alone to his next class.

"Francis. Hey, Francis," Arthur called out. Francis spun around and grinned at Arthur.

"Ah, if it isn't l'Anglais!" Francis exclaimed cheerily. Arthur rolled his eyes at Francis as he caught up with him. "Enjoying this lovely school, I hope?"

"Yes. Delightfully peachy. I wanted to ask you something," Arthur said quickly. He doubted that Gilbert would tell him anything, and asking Matthew or Lovino was out of the question, so Arthur's next choice was Francis.

Francis's face became serious. "It's about today's little scuffle in class, isn't it?"

"You're a mind reader," Arthur replied. "Say I'm crazy, but I believe there's something the rest of our class knows that I don't. And it certainly has nothing to do with the book we're reading."

Francis sighed and slipped his hands into his plaid uniform pockets. "We shouldn't have to read that book. Not now. Not this year."

"Why do you say that?" Arthur asked curiously.

"It's too raw," Francis said simply. He gave a small shrug. "You're right. The fight between little Lovino and Mathieu was not related to the book in the slightest."

"It was…it was about some Alfred, wasn't it?" Arthur pressed on.

Francis kept his eyes forward. He acted as if he didn't hear Arthur. Finally, he took a deep breath and nodded.

"He was Alfred F. Jones," Francis said in such a soft voice that Arthur had to lean in to listen. "Matthew's twin brother."

"Was?" Arthur muttered. "What happened to him?" All he knew was from what Mrs. Theresa and Gilbert said to him; that he no longer came to this school.

"He died," Francis said shortly. Arthur turned sharply to Francis, but Francis had taken a sharp turn into his next class, leaving Arthur stranded in the hallway.

* * *

"Fratello."

Lovino tore away from Feliciano's grasp, striding out of the classroom. Feliciano followed him, grabbing his hand once more.

"Big Brother—"

"Leave me alone, you idiot!" Lovino snapped, wrenching away from Feliciano. "You're going to get us both late for class! Just go to your next class already!"

"But Lovino…we have the same next class," Feliciano pointed out nervously. Lovino's stride quickened, trying to shed off his younger brother. "Lovino—Lovi—"

"You probably think I'm a heartless little asshole as well, don't you?" Lovino said under his breath. "I'm sure everyone in that class does now."

"I don't," Feliciano murmured.

"Well, I don't care if they do or not! I said what I believed!" Lovino snarled, his voice wavering at the end.

"I know," Feliciano said softly. "So did Matthew."

Lovino averted his gaze to the ground. "Well—I'm right, aren't I? Look at the state of us, Feliciano! We're fighting and crying and haven't gotten over anything yet! Is this what was intended?" Lovino gripped his fist tightly. "My word—you can't just—you can't just _leave_ us like this to have to take care of everything ourselves! It isn't right! It isn't fair!"

"Who are you yelling at, Fratello?" Feliciano asked nervously.

"Who else?" Lovino said flatly. "I wanted to give him a piece of my mind."

Feliciano bit his lip. "But Fratello," he said, "he can't hear us anymore."

* * *

Matthew felt empty inside. But it really wasn't anything worth noting. He felt empty every single day for the past three weeks. He was drained. Hollowed out. Just a useless, meaningless shell.

The neighborhood was quiet as he walked back home from school. He felt numb. The wind's gentle caress meant nothing to him. The spring sun's lukewarm embrace was worthless. What was the point of feeling anything? His second half was gone.

Every day was just another day.

One by one.

Slowly counting down to his own end.

When would that be?

_Could he choose?_

Matthew shook his head, trying to clear his mind. He shan't think such thoughts. It was wrong. It was selfish. It was—

Tempting.

Because these days, the days going by one by one, were nothing. There was no hope, no miracle, no joy. Just gray. A slate completely scrawled over with scarring words that could never be erased. Can never start anew.

Matthew was standing before his front door, staring ahead. He didn't want to go back in. He didn't like walking into his own house anymore. What if a surprise or a shock jumped out at him just as he stepped through? He didn't want any more surprised. No more. He had enough.

He glanced down at the house key in his palm. House key. Not a home anymore. Not to him. Home stopped existing ever since Alfred was packed in a pine box and buried six feet under. Home died twenty-two days ago.

Each day was always the same.

It was always the same empty feeling inside. The same numbness that blocked out any sound or emotion.

Every day, just like today, Matthew would stand at the doorstep for who knows how long before finally unlocking the door and stepping in. He would kick off his shoes silently; it would sound like no one was home.

His father would be in the kitchen, resting after a long day of work. Matthew always wanted some way to avoid the kitchen, to find a detour to his room as to avoid any contact. Some days it would work; others weren't as lucky. On those days, his father would look up from his newspapers (Never the obituaries, please don't let it be the obituaries) and speak.

His father saying, "Welcome home, Mattie."

His father saying, "How was your day?"

His father saying, "Talk."

* * *

**I read somewhere that _Ordinary People_ was generally taught to American middle schools, but if I was a middle school teacher, I probably wouldn't assign it to my students. I don't know. The book just seems…a lot more appropriate for a high school student than a middle school one.**

**I won't say much about the book now, though I'm sure most of you already have a gist of what's going on and what happens in the book if you don't know already, but I'm just going to say that…in the end of my other story "Hello Hurricane," Ludwig better not ever read it. He would…not…be happy… **

**But yeah, I recommend it to you all. It shook me quite a bit. Of course, this was about the time when I was just finishing writing "Hello Hurricane" and I found myself reading this not in Conrad's point of view (Conrad is the main character), but from Ludwig's…**

**Did anyone else see Himaruya's 'Prussia's Cleaning Game?' It's so adorable. **


	5. Chapter 5

**I forgot today was update day...**

**So I've been doing some history research to find a new oneshot to write...**

**I did learn that Prussia (East Prussia, specifically) suffered a lot of massacres in the hands of the Soviet Union though...O_o**

**...If anyone is looking for any writing prompts, I'd gladly give them something to write :'D  
**

**War is a tragic thing and none of it should be forgotten, despite how painful it is to remember...**

**So I just realized that tomorrow would be my uh…one year anniversary of Hetalia fanfiction. Which means that exactly tomorrow, October 15 2010, I will have been writing Hetalia fanfiction for exactly one year. **

**Sounds sort of pointless to you, I'm sure, but it's a big deal for me because I seriously have not stayed obsessed with a fandom for more than three months, much less an entire YEAR and STILL be writing fanfiction for it. High fives, anyone…? **

**But thank you all for reading my Hetalia fanfiction ^_^;;. I've been really blessed with all your positive criticism that helped me continue writing and strive for improvement. I know I say it a lot, but thank you all so much for taking time to read. It really means a lot to me. **

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Krayonela: YES. YES YOU SHOULD READ THOSE BOOKS. They definitely inspired me to write...and they certainly had their hand in the angst in Hello Hurricane :'D. Maybe this story as well. Giant guilt trip pretty much sums up this story, ahahaha...Yeah, I've been struggling with ideas about what's really all right and what's wrong as well, so writing for them last chapter was sort of like digging something out of myself. And I'm really glad you read my story! No worries; I understand how toiling school can be. I'm just really touched that you still read my story :'D.**

**TeaCup: It was totally awesome :D. And it certainly is a very different sort of war novel. I kind of like it that way. It's very...raw and honest. Even though the writer kind of adds that it is both dishonest and honest at the same time...Ahahaha :'D Hmm, I think I may have a guess who you would feel sorry for here XD. Maybe. Thank you for reading!  
**

Gilbert spent yet another lunch period at the piano practice room. The simple yet haunting melodies kept him company as his fingers stiffly traveled across the yellowing and black keys. He hadn't touched the piano or the violin in so long since Alfred's death. The first time he did was when Arthur caught him on his first day.

Gilbert pursed his lips as he paused in the middle of his piece. He tried to continue but it was no use. He couldn't remember the piece. It was odd; he had learned it a long time ago and had it memorized for months, but now it slipped from his memory.

It was one of Alfred's favorite pieces.

Gilbert slammed the piano lid shut, his face blank. It was a good thing he couldn't remember that song, then. He didn't want to play it ever again. He took in a deep breath before sliding off the piano bench and grabbing his backpack from the ground. The practice room suddenly felt too small and cramped for him. In one fluid motion, he kicked open the door and stepped out into the hallway.

He froze.

Ivan was right across from him on the other side of the hallway, staring at him.

Gilbert glared at Ivan. He clenched his fists as Ivan stepped closer. His survival instincts were screaming at him to get away as fast as possible, but he kept his ground. He was not one to run away.

"What do you want?" Gilbert growled. "You've been hanging around my hallway for weeks."

Ivan didn't respond at first. Gilbert's muscles grew taut defensively. The taller student acted as if he didn't hear Gilbert.

"What are you going to do to me this time?" Gilbert said in a low voice. "Lock me in the kitchen freezer again? Shred my backpack with scissors?"

"No," Ivan said quietly. Gilbert scoffed with disbelief.

"So you're going to try something new on me again?" Gilbert accused through gritted teeth. "Now that I'm alone once more, and there's no one trying to stop or fight against you, you're going to unleash your hell, aren't you?"

Ivan widened his eyes at the accusation. He shook his head vigorously, his face darkened with anxiety. Gilbert drew back in suspicious surprise. By this time, Ivan would have beaten him up or gave him an ominous threat. Give another five minutes and Gilbert would probably find himself locked in the frigid freezer or shoved in a dark corner of a godforsaken closet. This was something he did not expect.

"That isn't it at all," Ivan insisted. "I mean no harm."

"That's what you said before you threw me into the natatorium with my limbs bound," Gilbert snapped, tightening his fists. He promised himself that if Ivan tried anything, he would strike him right on that obscenely large nose.

"I'm sorry," Ivan whispered.

Gilbert blinked with surprise at the unexpected apology. He scrutinized Ivan with suspicion, expecting an underhand blow.

"What are you—?" he began.

"For everything," Ivan finished swiftly. "Those years of torture." He hesitated before continuing. "For Alfred."

Gilbert stiffened at the mention of his old friend. He wanted to disappear that very moment. He didn't want to exist anymore because he suddenly realized how absolutely alone he was. Here he was, stuck in a corridor with his longtime foe, with absolutely no idea what to say or do or who to turn to.

"So you think that's all it takes?" Gilbert demanded, laughing with macabre distrust. "After all this—after all we've been through—just a _sorry_ would make things better?"

Ivan pursed his lips nervously. Gilbert shook his head, all signs of feigned mirth gone. He was downright bitter.

"I promise I'll be better," Ivan said earnestly. "I don't want to hurt anymore. Ever since…"

His voice trailed away into nothingness. Instead, he lifted a hand to Gilbert as if extending an offer of truce. Gilbert stared down at the gloved hand before him. Part of him wanted to rip the hand off the wrist. The other part just wanted to melt into the walls and fade.

He finally sighed and looked up at Ivan with cold red eyes. He swallowed hard before finally speaking.

"It wasn't because of you Alfred died," he said.

Ivan blinked confusedly down at Gilbert. Gilbert only tore his eyes from Ivan and continued to walk away, leaving Ivan's peace incomplete. Ivan stood alone in the hallway, his hand still raised hopefully and remorsefully. He watched Gilbert's retreating back, feeling a cold sense of déjà vu.

_It wasn't because of you Alfred died._

How could Gilbert say that after all those things Ivan did to the both of them? He had fought this endless war with Alfred for years, attacking both him and his friends for his own guilty pleasures. He had almost put them in fatal situations for enjoyment.

If it was anyone's fault, it had to be his. He was always labeled the sadist, the insane butcher, the Hannibal Lector of the school. And for once, Ivan finally had to agree with them all.

_It wasn't because of you Alfred died._

Then whose fault was it?

Someone had to be blamed.

And Ivan could see all the fingers pointing to him.

_Monster._

_Devil. _

Ivan winced, but he did not fight back the demons in his mind.

Surely they were telling the truth.

* * *

Arthur was sitting at a table in the commons, eating his lunch hungrily. A sweet girl with black pigtails from Seychelles was kind enough to let him sit at her table and was chatting amiably with him. He was enjoying his time when he spotted Gilbert enter the commons, scanning the room with uncertainty. Arthur waved his hand above his head to catch his attention.

"So you've finally decided to enter the strange world of society," Arthur teased as Gilbert approached the table.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt, explorer of the new world, reporting for duty," Gilbert said, saluting lazily. He nodded toward the girl. "Hey, Victoria."

Victoria waved. "You know, Gilbert, Elizaveta is asking about you all the time."

Gilbert's cheeks tinted pink and he pulled up a chair. "What does she say?"

Victoria shrugged innocently. "Oh, just things. Nothing too important."

"When you say it that way, then it has to be something not unimportant," Gilbert said dryly. "Really, what does she say?"

"She says your quietness is scaring her," Victoria admitted, nibbling on her chicken. "She thinks you might take drastic measures, whatever she means by that."

Gilbert rubbed the long sleeves of his jacket absentmindedly. "What a gal. Well, she's paranoid. Everything's fine with me."

"Promise?" Victoria insisted.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Gilbert said dismissively. "Hey, Artie, I have a question about our history homework."

"All right," Arthur said, putting down his half-eaten pasty. Victoria's face fell at the mention of history.

"You two should have much more conversations during lunch than about _school_," she complained. "I'll leave you to your intellectual scuffles." At that, she threw her paper bag into a nearby trashcan and scurried away.

"She doesn't like it whenever anyone mentions history class," Gilbert said, smirking. "She's always teased about how her home country barely has one."

"So you were just chasing her off?" Arthur asked confusedly.

"Of course," Gilbert said.

"She probably would've left if you told her that you needed to talk to me in private," Arthur said, frowning.

"But then she would _know_ that I needed to talk to you about something less than casual," Gilbert pointed out.

"But she wouldn't know what we were talking about!"

"Doesn't matter. She would know something is up." Gilbert lowered his voice and leaned forward. "You were right about Braginski."

"I told you," Arthur said dryly before taking another bite of his pasty.

"He approached me in the music wing today," Gilbert continued, messing with Arthur's plastic container of meatballs. He squinted at the meat inside. "What are these?"

"Faggots," Arthur answered simply. Gilbert gawked at Arthur, who raised an eyebrow confusedly. "What?"

"Nothing," Gilbert said innocently. He put the meatballs down, chuckling. Arthur rolled his eyes and took his faggots back.

"What is so funny?" Arthur snapped.

"You wouldn't get it," laughed Gilbert. "It's a North American term. Mein Gott, Alfred would have been on the ground laughing—" He paused, his laughter completely silenced. He looked away and absentmindedly shredded Arthur's napkin.

"So…what about Ivan?" Arthur pressed on, trying to veer the subject away.

"He apologized," Gilbert said uncertainly.

"And how do you feel about that?" Arthur said swiftly, sipping his tea from his thermos.

"Suspicious," Gilbert admitted. "I mean, come on! This is the same bloke who pretty much killed to have 'friends.' He did things you wouldn't dream a school bully doing, and that didn't make him feel a bit guilty. What makes him suddenly feel like regretting? He wants to trick me in some way; I know it."

Arthur rested his chin on his hand contemplatively. "Maybe you're taking this all wrong. Maybe he does want to repent."

"Impossible," Gilbert said stubbornly, crumpling Arthur's paper bag and tossing it into the trash can. "Score. Anyway, you don't know him the way I do."

"Sounds like you had it rough, hm?" Arthur asked.

"You have no idea," Gilbert muttered. Arthur locked his fingers together and rested his chin on them.

"If it helps your analysis of Braginski," Arthur said slowly, "Toris caught up with me before lunch. Braginski apologized to him also."

Gilbert frowned immediately. "What about the others? Like Elizaveta or Eduard? Did you hear if they were apologized to as well?"

"Not a dickie bird," Arthur admitted casually. "But then again, I haven't even formally met them yet, so I can't really ask, can I?"

Gilbert bit down on the tip of his tongue, narrowing his eyes. Arthur shrugged resignedly and continued eating his lunch.

"What did he apologize for?" Arthur asked as he nibbled a biscuit.

"Everything," Gilbert repeated. "The past." He glanced sideways. "Alfred."

"Why did he apologize about Alfred?" Arthur asked curiously. It had been several days after the incident in English class, and now the classmates seemed more restless than before.

"I don't know," Gilbert grumbled, annoyed. "It's a long story, all right? But he's wrong."

"That didn't exactly tell me anything," Arthur said frankly.

"Why do you need to know? You've only been here for two weeks!" Gilbert snapped. He paused before groaning and holding up his hands in surrender. "Sorry—I didn't mean it like that. It's just—"

"Never mind, never mind," Arthur said hastily, waving a hand. "I understand. I shouldn't pry. I apologize."

"You don't have to," Gilbert mumbled. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I suppose it's understandable. I mean, Alfred has been brought up a lot of times during the time you were here…"

"Five times by now," Arthur admitted. "Though uh—well, Francis explained it to me already."

"Explained…what?" Gilbert asked warily.

"He died...right?" Arthur said with uncertainty. Gilbert's lips drew into a thin line as he leaned back in his chair.

"Yeah. He did," Gilbert said flatly. "You uh, you understand why I didn't say it the first time you asked, right? I had just met you at the time and all."

"Of course," assured Arthur. He frowned to himself. "If you don't mind me asking, was Alfred also another one of Ivan's…victims?"

"Victim?" Gilbert repeated. He bit the inside of his cheek. "No. Not really. They were enemies."

Arthur raised his eyebrows in puzzlement. "He had enemies?"

"Oh, Braginski wasn't exactly the only one. Alfred sort of accidentally-on-purpose made enemies with that Makisig bloke from the Philippines, but that's a different case." Gilbert merely shrugged. "Alfred thought it would be 'super amazing' if he saved the student body from Braginski's bullying, so he pretty much declared war on Braginski."

Arthur couldn't help but think that such an idea was rather far-fetched and somewhat idealistic. How was one supposed to fight a bully without being one himself, anyway? "How did he manage that?"

"If there was a fistfight, he'd take the victim's place," said Gilbert. "He tried making up all these plans that were crazy as hell to seek revenge on Braginski. Needless to say, though, Braginski started to direct most of his harassment at Alfred."

"So he wanted to protect you?" Arthur said lightly.

Gilbert stabbed one of Arthur's meatballs ferociously with a plastic fork. "He didn't have to get involved at all. But he did anyway." He dropped the fork and rubbed his temple tiredly. "Well, I guess that's why they say to choose your friends wisely. Who knows what sort of horrible situations are in the package deal when you take them in?" He chuckled dryly.

"He was just trying to be a good friend and defend you, right?" Arthur pointed out. "With tactics that aren't exactly recommendable, in my opinion, but good intentions nonetheless."

"That's not it. He didn't have to. I was trying to keep him out of it," Gilbert said cynically. "But I cracked at the end. And then after that…everything just got worse."

"Wait," Arthur said quickly, realizing something horrible. "Alfred didn't—he didn't die from maltreatment from Ivan, did he?"

"No," Gilbert said shortly. "I never said that." He wouldn't look at Arthur. "I told Braginski already. It wasn't his damn fault."

"Oh," Arthur said, relieved. If that was the case, he might actually have had to rail against Ivan more than he already did. He glanced back at Gilbert and realized that his companion seemed rather perturbed. "Are you all right?"

"I'm—fine," Gilbert coughed out. "I just—I don't know. I sort of let my mind wander into really—bad—territory. It's nothing."

Arthur furrowed his eyebrows anxiously. Gilbert covered his eyes with his hands, took in a deep breath, and calmed down. "Just got attacked by stress, you know?" he stammered. "Ever had those feelings where—er—where you think about all the things you have to do in the future, like um, like work and—well, you get my drift, don't you?"

"No, but I can pretend I do," Arthur said bluntly.

Gilbert gave a crooked smile. He checked his wrist for the time, even though it was blatantly obvious he wasn't wearing one especially with the fact that his long sleeves covered it completely. "Hey, I got to go. Besides, the essence of society is choking me."

"You should get used to the essence of society," Arthur pointed out. "That's how you're going to have to live outside of high school, right?"

Gilbert laughed crudely and shook his head. "Mingling is for the weak." He lazily waved goodbye before hurrying out of the commons. Arthur shook his head resignedly at Gilbert's stubbornness. His refusal to interact with the rest of the school was going to bite him back; Arthur was certain of it.

Then again…Ludwig had said that before, Gilbert was extremely outgoing. It was only recently that he shut himself away.

_It's because of Alfred, isn't it?_

Gilbert had said that Braginski apologized for Alfred's death, but that it was needless. If that was the case, how did Alfred die?

And how did Gilbert know?

* * *

The house was silent.

It scared Gilbert half to death.

It shook him to the core. He hated silence. He hated the death of noise, the emptiness, the _loneliness_ of it all. It felt cold, like a whole sea of ice water enveloping him and dragging him into the unknown depths. But unlike any other body of water, he needn't fear for wildlife or predators hungering for his blood. He was completely alone.

He should be used to it, but he wasn't.

He was alone almost every day, every time he returned home. Ludwig only came home with him on very rare occasions, opting to be with Feliciano and Kiku most of the time instead. It had always been like that since they first met years ago.

Gilbert dropped his backpack onto the old wooden chair by the door. He felt drained, as if someone drilled a hole into his back and extracted his blood, veins, nerves, muscles, and organs, leaving only whittled bone and cold flesh. He felt as if he could barely stand anymore. He managed to drag himself to the living room and curled up on the couch.

The sunlight poured from the glass window and showered him. It warmed him up a bit too much and he instinctively made to zip open his jacket and shed it, but he stopped himself just as he fingered the key chain. Never. Even when he was alone, even when there was no one else to witness, he wouldn't.

He didn't want to see it himself.

It was too, too quiet.

Silence was his worst enemy.

It wasn't the kind of silence that would play games with you, make you _think_ there was something or someone nearby and make you quake in your boots. This was the silence that didn't lie, the one that said that you were completely, utterly alone and you can't change it.

Without even realizing it, Gilbert found himself reaching underneath the sofa. His hand grazed a leather cover and he grasped the handle, dragging it into daylight. The weathered violin case was sprinkled with dust after weeks of neglect. He dismissively brushed the dust off before unclasping the locks and opening the case. The little violin was nestled in the bottle green velvet, staring imploringly at its old owner.

How long had it been since he last touched this instrument?

Gilbert carefully lifted the violin and bow out of the case. He quickly tuned it to perfection, even though he doubted he would notice the difference whether he played it completely off tune or not. It spoke with its overpowering voice, both shocking and soothing.

It could have been nearly a month since he played.

Gilbert smiled wryly at himself before positioning the violin on his shoulder. He slid the bow over the tight strings. His fingers had lost their calluses by now, so the cold strings felt sharper than usual. Despite that, he pressed down hard on them, compelling the violin to follow his lead. The familiar habit of playing the violin calmed him down, almost as if the act was restoring the heart, the blood, and the nerves he had lost.

"I didn't know you came back home already."

Gilbert jumped in surprise at the sudden voice. The violin slipped off his shoulder and he hastily caught it before it crashed onto the ground. He looked up fervently to see Ludwig at the doorway, a pencil kept safely on his ear.

"Likewise," he said, the surprise wearing off. "What are you doing here so early?" His tone was both suspicious and hopeful. The only times Ludwig returned directly home were when he was in such a sour mood that apparently home was the best place to vent it.

"I have a difficult test to study for tomorrow," Ludwig said. Gilbert couldn't help but feel slightly crestfallen, but he wasn't even sure why. He searched his memory and realized that this was the longest civil conversation they had in many weeks, if not months. He had once so desperately pursued even a small conversation with Ludwig, trying to reestablish his place in Ludwig's life, but ever since Alfred died, he gave up. He let the both of them drift apart until it was too late to reach out and hold the other back.

"Oh," Gilbert said simply. He stared down at the violin in his hand before turning away. "Okay." He moved to put the violin back into the case.

"No. Wait," Ludwig cut in quickly. Gilbert cast a quizzical look back at Ludwig. "Hey. Play something, won't you?"

Gilbert blinked in surprise. Usually Ludwig would scold Gilbert for playing too loud, for interrupting his studying, or for making it too hard to talk to anyone on the phone. He hesitated, not sure if he even wanted to play for Ludwig. No doubt Ludwig would point out all his mistakes, missed notes, or posture. He found it necessary to scold Gilbert on everything he did. If it wasn't perfect, it wasn't worth existing, or so Gilbert thought Ludwig felt.

"Come on," Ludwig pleaded. Gilbert's eyes were locked on an invisible point on the ground. He didn't move; it was as if he was petrified. "Please?"

Finally, Gilbert lifted the violin back to his shoulder. Ludwig sat down at the couch patiently. Ludwig had hoped that somehow, in some way, he could rebuild the bridge that was broken between them. Tear down the glass wall that tragedy had erected. Somehow return everything to normality, or at least close. He deserved the wall; he deserved Gilbert's silent distance, but he would do anything to make it up in some way.

Gilbert lifted the bow and let it glide across the pale strings. A familiar melody poured from the small instrument with such a bold beginning that it was shocking that such a sound could come from something so minute. The minor tune trickled from the bow as smooth as silk, sometimes ruffled with lace as Gilbert decorated it with trills. Ludwig watched quietly as Gilbert played the sorrowful song. He wondered if Gilbert was trying to communicate with him, but was at a loss of words and could only use music.

Gilbert could feel nervousness in the pit of his stomach as he journeyed through the piece. He shouldn't be nervous; he had played violin for years, many times in front of an audience. He was not a self-conscious, weak-willed coward with little self esteem. That wasn't him. He was much powerful, he told himself. If he couldn't have control over life, he could have control over at least two things, and one was this.

Both the brothers felt it unconsciously, whether they were expecting or hoping for it or not. The glass wall was slowly melting even when no words were spoken, but perhaps that was just it. Just being in each other's presence with music and no anger; maybe that was all that it took.

Or perhaps it was more complicated than that.

Suddenly, the image struck Gilbert like lightning.

The bow slid across the violin, slashing the strings as if he was sawing a thick tree trunk. Such brisk movements and violence as he wrenched the bow back and forth! The harder he pressed, the louder the violin screamed.

_A pale forearm—_

His playing became more frantic as he played faster and faster. His fingers flew over the strings as if they were running from something dire. The bow would not stop cutting the violin in half. The violin would not stop crying.

_A sharp blade—_

Music poured from the taut strings so cleanly and clearly. It was colorful, it was bright; it was so vivid that Gilbert could see it. Dark red spurted out every time he smoothly slid the bow one direction. Sanguine dripped from the strings, coating and staining the violin, dribbling to the snowy carpet beneath.

Gilbert couldn't breathe.

All he could see were claret hues streaming from his violin. He was covered in it, soaked to the bone, sopping wet. He wished—prayed—it was his own, but it wasn't. He knew it wasn't. His hands were dirtied.

For a moment, in a fit of insanity, he thought he could finally understand what the violin was singing this whole time.

_How could you how could you how could you how could you—_

The music ended abruptly, as if a blunt axe fell upon the smooth stream. Ludwig was shaken awake from the musical stupor. He looked up at Gilbert in surprise. Gilbert's face was gray and clammy. The violin and bow had slipped from his hands and crashed to the ground. Gilbert remained motionless, staring at the ground with wide red eyes.

"Gilbert?" Ludwig said unsurely.

Gilbert jerked back to life. He stepped back into the wall, staring at the violin as if it was cursed. He finally tore himself away, striding quickly out of the living room.

"Gilbert!" Ludwig called out.

"I don't want to play anymore," was Gilbert's cursory response. Gilbert quickened his pace, his heart pounding as fast as an automatic machine gun. He raced up the stairs, clutching his arms. He felt sick and disgusting, not like himself at all anymore. But since when did he ever feel like himself anymore?

He rushed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, locking it immediately. He didn't turn on the lights, so he was concealed by the heavy blackness. Only then did he finally breathe, gasping for air as if he had been submerged underwater almost to the point of drowning.

Gilbert stumbled into the bathtub, nearly hitting his head against the wall. Without even taking off his clothes, he turned on the water and curled into a ball under the stream of hot water.

Please, wash it away.

Wash it all away.

But he knew that it was futile. He was stained, he was covered. He was guilty. He deserved this.

The piping hot water soaked his hair and clothes, but he didn't move. His knees were drawn to his chest and he hid his face in them, trying to block out the entire world. This was insane and irrational and he knew it, but he did not protest or stop.

He reached a hand out from the bathtub to the sink and curled his fingers around the familiar object. He brought it to him, clutching it as if it were his lifeline.

He knew it was not his friend or mentor. Not even close. But no matter how much he hated it, no matter how much he tried to stop, he would always find himself running back to it. It was a drug, an act of desperation. An attempt to make amends.

It was pitch black. Gilbert couldn't see a thing. He was used to it; whenever he took a shower or changed clothes, it was always in the darkness, where no one could see him, not even himself. Just so he wouldn't see the madness he had brought upon himself.

But why did madness always seem so _right_?

Gilbert began to laugh; an almost maniacal, desperate laugh that didn't make sense. He didn't even know what he was laughing at; his own desperate state, his madness, how he clung to that shred of hope that somehow, in some inexplicable way, this would cure him of his sins.

The more he tried to quiet himself, the more he chortled. His mind howled at him to stop; Ludwig would hear! He would find out! But Gilbert did not fear that anymore. This had been going on for nearly twenty-three days and even his brother did not suspect a thing. Who would expect Gilbert Beilschmidt to hit rock bottom?

That was why it was so easy to fall: because no one would even dream of it happening, so there was no point in stopping something they thought would never happen, right?

"Alfred," Gilbert whispered. "Alfred, Alfred, Alfred, Alfred…"

It was Alfred's blood he was trying to cleanse himself from, even though it would be no use. It was all Gilbert's fault, wasn't it? He held onto the handle tighter.

"God, tell him I'm sorry," Gilbert muttered. And then it struck him; sharp, stinging pain overlapping old scars. He knew he deserved every bit of it. "God, let him know—I wish he was back. He didn't deserve to die. I should be dead too—it's my fault—"

_Stop it stop it stop it stop the pain he wouldn't have wanted you to do this are you an idiot let go of it wash your arm and never do it again listen to me what happened to you you're a fool stop this HOW WILL THIS CHANGE ANYTHING—_

Blood was streaming down his arm and coloring his hand with ruby life. But Gilbert was so convinced that it wasn't even his.

It was Alfred's.


	6. Chapter 6

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Tea Cup: Yeah, Gilbert isn't treating himself very well...normally you'd think that he'd be the last person to do that but I sort of go the other way…^_^. I hadn't a specific piece in mind for Gilbert to play, but I was listening to this song while writing the scene: ****http: /www .youtube .com/ watch?v=- EQ6eHe BrhM because I couldn't find any other melancholy ones…:D The video title sort of is self-explanatory…XD If you want writing ideas, I'd love for someone to write about the Battle of Königsberg. I don't think I'd have time to write it myself…another idea would be a Frying Pangle story based off the song from Phantom of the Opera called 'All I Ask of You' :'D. Oh, I'm so sappy. And that's what he said why he chose to not tell the truth in his book, so that readers could feel what he wanted to express :'D. Thank you for reading! **

**Helisse: Ahh, I'm glad you like my suspense ^_^;;. Truthfully I haven't written a suspense on purpose in a while…not for fanfiction, at least. I'm really happy to hear that you say my storyline is very original. I sort of got inspired by a mixture of real life things and what I hear on the news and in music, so it's like a several-months-old mixture of inspiration. 'Creepy as hell'…teehee, I never actually expected to get this kind of comment for a Hetalia fic, but it makes me happy 8D. Thank you for reading!**

**Lizzy: Wahh, I'm so glad to hear that you are writing! That really excites me. Please post it online! I'd really love to see what you wrote! Especially if it's angsty PruHun like you said it was ;D. And I'm super happy that you are following my other stories as well~ :3. Thanks for taking time to read! Write on, bud. Write on. –pumps fist in air-**

**The Krayon: Aha, thank you~ XD It's a very amazing feat for me since I usually am very flitty with stories, even more so with fandoms, and yet somehow Hetalia continues on…ahaha, Makisig…he may or may not show up in later chapters ;). I wasn't actually planning on making Gilbert a violin person until I remember very briefly mentioning it in 'T****áncol?' and I thought it would make some good imagery…:3. Otherwise I still think he's all for the flute or harpsichord :'D. I think in the end, the truth of the story will still be more of a 'show don't tell' revelation…XD. I'm quite excited for that chapter, really…Thank you!**

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**"If you throw someone a life preserver, and they turn around and swim away from it; what can you do but let them drown themselves?"**

**-Tracy Phaup**

Arthur was quickly skimming over the most recent chapter they read in preparation for the upcoming quiz. He barely had enough time last night to pay attention to the book since he had to study for three different tests, begin a research project, and help Peter in his mathematics (who was in truth faking his misunderstanding of fractions only to irk Arthur even further).

Out of the corner of his eyes Arthur saw a stranger entered the classroom. Was it a new student? Without any hesitation, the new boy headed straight to Arthur's row and slid into the desk behind him. Irritated at the new person's behavior (shouldn't he wait to be seated and not freely choose wherever he wanted?), he turned in his seat.

"I'm sorry, but this is already someone's—" Arthur took a better look at the boy and gawked. "Matthew?"

"Um…yes?" Matthew said nervously. Arthur squinted at him, not entirely accepting what he was seeing.

"Where did your glasses go?" Arthur demanded.

"I uh, I got contacts," Matthew murmured. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"And how do you explain your hair?" It vaguely reminded him of how Ludwig fashioned his hair. "Did you use hair gel or a whole bottle of glue?"

Matthew sank lower in his chair. "I can't say—well, that wasn't really the reaction I was expecting."

"Well, I'm sorry if you thought I was going to confuse you for Ludwig, but there are quite a lot of differences between you," Arthur said unsurely.

"That wasn't what I was aiming for," Matthew said hurriedly. "I was just—I didn't want to look like someone else."

"Who else could you possibly be?" exclaimed Arthur. "What was wrong with how you look normally?"

Matthew became distraught, "Because I don't want to look like—!" He paused and he immediately quieted. "I just—I don't want to look like…" His voice trailed away and he was just an empty shell.

"…Alfred?" Arthur filled in quietly. Matthew looked up in surprise.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"I sort of…found out by some people," Arthur admitted embarrassedly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried."

Matthew shook his head in defeat. "No. It doesn't matter. You would've found out sooner or later. Considering that one time in English class…" His face reddened and he looked as if he wanted to sink into the floor and never reappear.

"But even then," Arthur said slowly, "it doesn't mean you have to completely change your looks, right? People are used to you looking like…you, anyway. What's the difference?"

"I don't want to look like him," Matthew repeated, his voice much softer.

"It isn't any sort of taboo, is it?" asked Arthur. "I mean, you two are twins—"

"We _were_ twins," Matthew corrected automatically.

Arthur was taken aback slightly. What was it about death and the past tense verb? It was always the same: people would talk about how the deceased _should have been_ this certain age after this certain birthday, or they would lament about how they _could have_ celebrated a certain anniversary together but now it's completely cut off, or they _used _to be a mother or a sister or any relative but somehow death obliterated their existence. It was as if people thought the dead never existed. Does death stop someone's memory from growing older? Did death always immediately white out a name off a family tree as if it were never there?

"Right," Arthur said, frowning. "But what I'm trying to say is that you can't just change how you look completely. What difference would it make?"

"You—you don't understand," Matthew said pleadingly. "They've always confused me with him. Everyone. They all used to think I was Alfred whenever I walked into the room. I got used to it; it was inevitable." He clenched his shaking fists on the desk. "But now he's gone and who am I supposed to be? People are scared to even _look _at me." He gazed around the room as if to prove a point. "People see me and they think Alfred's back because I look _so much _like him, but in reality—I'm just Matthew."

Arthur fumbled over words. "Surely—surely you're just thinking about this a little too deeply."

"I'm not," Matthew insisted.

"Did anyone actually say that?" Arthur said.

"They don't _need_ to say anything," mumbled Matthew. "I can just see it. Do you understand?"

"Not particularly," Arthur admitted. He began to regret pointing out Matthew's change in appearance. He felt horrible for forcing Matthew to come face-to-face with what he feared once more. "Look, Matthew—you may look like Alfred, but you're still just yourself. You _aren't_ Alfred and no one _expects_ you to be. It isn't a crime to look like him either."

Matthew stared expressionlessly at Arthur, which unnerved him. Had he accidentally said the wrong thing? But he said what he believed.

"Besides," Arthur stuttered, trying to save the conversation, "it would be like—er—it would be like a last relic of him, wouldn't it? Something to hold on to—so in a way, he isn't completely gone—"

"That's just it," Matthew said immediately. "They don't want that. No one does. I mean, take Lovino—" Out of instinct, Arthur cast a second glance at the Italian. He was sitting stiffly at his chair, his arms crossed tight and his eyes glaring at the chalkboard. Feliciano tried to speak to him, but Lovino quickly brushed him away.

"He's—I mean, isn't that his personality?" Arthur said tentatively.

"He can't stand anything that mentions Alfred," Matthew said quietly. "I don't make it any better. I think today—since I looked so different—it was the first time he actually looked at me. Before, he would make every effort to avoid doing so."

Arthur pursed his lips with concern. "But—that doesn't really make sense. Is he _angry_ at Alfred?"

Matthew hesitated before nodding meekly. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

"How can he be mad at _Alfred_ for his own death? It wasn't like he chose to die, was it?"

Matthew's face was completely blank. He swallowed hard and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and swallowed again. He let out a watery chuckle and shook his head.

"I don't know," Matthew said in a strained voice. "But what difference does it make anymore?"

Arthur knit his eyebrows in suspicion. He wanted to pursue the subject more, but his conscience tugged at him in a scolding manner. Even so, he couldn't help but say one last remark.

"It makes a difference to everyone else, doesn't it?" Arthur pointed out.

Matthew looked as if was withering. His eyes were downcast, staring at his hands gripping at the edge of the desk. He gave a jerky shrug and a hollow cough.

"You're right," Matthew murmured so quietly it sounded like dust. "It means everything to us."

* * *

"How was your day, Mattie?"

Matthew didn't speak as he entered the kitchen of his home. He quietly ruffled his gelled hair until it fell back into its original style and gently placed his rucksack onto the kitchen table.

"Good?" his father pressed on.

Matthew shrugged wordlessly. His father bit his lip before pulling his chair closer to Matthew.

"Not that great?"

Matthew didn't even give his father an answer. What was he supposed to say? Every day was becoming the same, meshing into one endless routine. Silence. Absolute silence.

His father let out a small sigh before standing up. Matthew swallowed, his throat feeling scratchy and dry. He knew he should say something to his father, close the wordless gap between them, be the good son that his father needed—but he didn't _want_ to anymore. It wasn't that he couldn't, he just didn't want to.

"What do you want for dinner?" his father asked (_Please stop talking to me I don't want to speak to you just leave me alone)_. "Salmon? It's your favorite, isn't it?"

Matthew unzipped his rucksack and extracted his homework books.

"I bought some beaver tails from the bakery this afternoon during lunch hour," his father added. "I know how much you like them."

The name of the pastry that used to bring so much joy was now like a deadened pebble. It affected Matthew in no way whatsoever.

"Hey, Mattie…" his father said quietly. Matthew stiffened. He knew that tone of voice. It made his skin crawl off. It was the same voice his father used after the funeral, after the tears and the pain and the heartache, the voice that told Matthew it was all right, don't blame yourself, it wasn't your fault—

"I don't care what's for dinner," Matthew interrupted immediately. He swiped his notebooks from the kitchen table and hurried off as fast as he could before his father could stop him. He bounded up the stairs, gripping so tightly on the notebook that the metal rungs slashed red marks on his palm.

_Red marks—_

He pressed his back against the wall of the upstairs corridor, holding his breath. He let the notebooks fall from his hand and slide down to the carpeted ground. He heard footsteps on the first floor and his heart froze. What if his father followed him up the stairs and tried to talk to him? He had done it countless times before; it wouldn't be surprising if he did again.

Instead, the footsteps stopped at the foot of the stairs before resignedly dragging away. Matthew heard the garage door open and the door shut, the locks tightening it closed. He let out a sigh of relief as his father climbed into the car and drove from the house. His father had finally given up. Though it relieved Matthew, he could not help but feel a pang of both guilt and defeat.

_What kind of family is this?_

_You all can't even cling to each other in times like this. _

Matthew drew his lips to a thin line before quietly slinking to the nearest room. He was plagued with guilt for not speaking to his father; he was experiencing the same pain, but Matthew wouldn't communicate. Wouldn't share his thoughts. Wouldn't even reach out to him.

It wasn't that Matthew didn't want to burden his father with even more sorrows. It was nothing selfless or self-sacrificing. It was plain and simple: he didn't want to.

He couldn't connect with his father anymore. The bond between father and son—it vanished right when one of the sons was gone forever. Matthew loved his father, but he just couldn't speak to him anymore.

_Are we still a family if part of us is missing?_

Matthew closed the door to the room before finally looking up. He froze.

This was Alfred's old room.

Of all the rooms he went into, it was the one whose door was never open in nearly four weeks.

The telltale rug was still positioned discreetly on the cream carpet. It clashed horribly; a Native American weaving in the midst of Alfred's comic books, movie posters, and sports balls crammed into one bedroom. Matthew felt bile crawl up his throat at the sight of it.

He immediately backed away, slamming against the door. His fingers curled around the doorknob behind him, prepared to make a hasty retreat, but he just couldn't tear himself away from his brother's room.

It was still set up in the same way before he had died, as if he was still using the room, except for the thin layer of dust covering everything. The comic books were still sprawled on top of the desk while his old homework and notebooks were thrown carelessly aside. The bed was still unmade while old and musty laundry clumped in one corner. Glossy posters and banners were plastered on the wall with old tape and stickers. An old McDonald's takeout bag was crammed in the overflowing wastebasket.

Alfred's bedroom.

Whose things were these now that he is dead and gone?

Matthew remembered all those nights that the two brothers had spent in this room, late at night, talking and sharing thoughts and secrets, or just laughing until it hurt. Just being brothers. The memory of it was like a douse of cold water to Matthew, because now they would never have a moment like that anymore. They would never make new jokes or continue old ones. They would never laugh with each other anymore. He would never hear Alfred say another word anymore.

Matthew shook, his legs feeling like gelatin underneath him. All the pent-up emotion, the words he wanted to say, the pitches he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, were bottled up inside and ready to explode. Alfred was the one he had always confided in, the sole person he told everything to.

But now he was gone, and who was Matthew supposed to trust?

"Why aren't you here?" Matthew whispered. His hands were trembling and he had to clench them into fists to keep them steady. "I need you. I always need you. But you're gone."

He slowly placed his hands on the wall. He could feel the grainy dust coating the smooth posters. The eyes of the famous celebrities and superheroes smiled brightly at him. Were these the same eyes that watched Alfred die? How were they superheroes if they didn't do anything to save him?

"I told you everything," Matthew said in a shaking voice. "I poured out my heart to you. You could've done the same to me. You could've trusted me. Did I trust you for nothing?"

His fingers curled under the poster. It was taped tightly against the wall, but Matthew managed to slide his fingers behind it. Tiny rips erupted on the edges.

"Why couldn't you let me help?" Matthew cried. In a swift motion, he tore the poster off the wall. It ripped the beaming celebrities in half. He threw them aside and ran his fingernails across the posters beside it, tearing them like a monster. "I wanted to help you! I could have helped you!"

He swung his arm around. It knocked down the entire collection of action figures that Alfred had positioned on the shelf. Matthew never felt this way before—never had he felt the desire to completely destroy.

"Why didn't you trust me?" Matthew shouted to the ceiling. The comic books were swept off the desk, crumpled under Matthew's feet. Dust billowed in the air as the time capsule was disturbed, as Matthew tore and ripped and ruffled everything that was once Alfred.

Four weeks of not having a brother.

Four weeks of holding back _everything_ until it ripped his body apart.

How was Matthew supposed to last the rest of his lifetime?

_Why couldn't you stay alive for me? _

"You said you'd always be there for me!" Matthew screamed, slamming against the closet door. The room was no longer Alfred's last remnant—Matthew had completely destroyed it. All that once was Alfred's organization, all the things that his own hands had placed in their original position, was disturbed. None of it was Alfred's anymore. Now he was utterly, completely gone.

Regret only came after the damage was done; a second too late.

"But you're not," Matthew whispered, sliding to the ground. The Navajo rug was at his feet and he felt sick immediately. He drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

The room was so unbearably cold.

"And it's my fault, isn't it?" Matthew asked, his eyes and nose burning painfully. "It's my fault…"

No one would see Matthew's outburst or emotions. He had always shown them solely to Alfred. Even now.


	7. Chapter 7

**Is it just me, or did it take a lot longer to be Thursday than it did last week?**

**So I tried to fill my very first Hetalia kink meme prompt (It had nothing to do with romance/sex, so I don't think the word 'kink' would fit here…) but…I don't think I'm liked very much on that thing ^_^;;. I just don't understand the rules or the setup, so I think I might just de-anon it and put it on here later.**

**It's a longshot, and sort of not an AU (I know, a first for me nowadays :P) concerning Prussia and Germany and a whole conglomerate of other countries I feel like throwing in, so I'll probably try to aim for publishing it after this one is finished.**

**That is…if I ever finish it, considering the rate I'm going :P. **

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Tea Cup: I hear what you mean…Matthew's situation relates to me as well. It's hard to open up to people no matter how close you are to them, it seems…you just want to dwell in your own mind whether or not that is a good thing...Hopefully there was no food left in that Mickey D's bag or else it would be rotten by now XD. But nahh, Alfred would never leave something uneaten. Violin!Gilbert is sexy to me :3. But violins are also a very sad instrument….Ahh! I'm so glad to hear you read _The Things They Carried_! That is seriously one of my favorite books ever. And as for Les Mis…I actually…never read/watched it XD. But I heard the musical was good :3. I recommend _The Pianist_ or _Catcher in the Rye_ if you are following Gilbert's reading list from HH. Thanks for reading!**

**Suzako: Haha, I'm glad you like the story! :D Thank you for reading~!**

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**_"_****_You come to me with scars on your wrist  
You tell me this will be the last night feeling like this  
'I just came to say goodbye  
I didn't want you to see me cry, I'm fine.'  
But I know it's a lie…"_**

**_-Skillet "The Last Night"_**

"This is madness," Gilbert muttered, flipping through the thick textbook. "Why do teachers love to spring tests on us two days before the actual testing day?"

"Welcome to high school," Arthur grumbled, scribbling quickly onto some note cards. He was studying with Gilbert at the Beilschmidt house in preparation for a surprise test coming up in two days. They were both home alone; Gilbert's parents and brother were absent.

"And to top it all off, this is my least favorite chapter," Gilbert sighed, popping the cap off of his highlighter.

"Not a fan of Darwinism, aye?" Arthur quipped.

"Not exactly," Gilbert said. "Unfortunately, this is also the longest chapter in the existence of advanced Biology…"

"Bear with it, my friend," Arthur said resignedly, turning the page in his book. "You chose the class. You knew what you were putting yourself up to."

"Hngh," Gilbert replied, writing into his study notebook. He pushed his overlarge sleeves up to his wrists; they were so long that they were almost at his fingertips.

"Why did you buy a hooded sweatshirt twice your size?" Arthur remarked, tugging at the lengthy sleeve. Gilbert jerked his arm back automatically.

"I prefer long sleeves; is that a problem?" Gilbert protested.

"Not unless you're covering up the fact that your arms are as thin as sticks," Arthur smirked.

"Oi! They aren't!" exclaimed Gilbert. "It's just—leave my fashion statements alone! I prefer long sleeves in the springtime. That's normal." He pulled the sleeves over his hands once more. "Are you up for an all-nighter for tomorrow too? That is, if you don't mind camping out in my place."

"Your family won't exactly appreciate my presence, I would think," Arthur said, yawning.

"My father wouldn't care," Gilbert said. "Neither would West. Heck, they're barely home to begin with."

"Why's that?" Arthur asked casually, tossing the finished note card into the growing pile beside him.

"Well, Father is always at work," Gilbert said, shrugging.

"And…Ludwig?" Arthur asked.

"Gone," Gilbert said shortly. He stretched his arms and rubbed his eyes. "He's barely ever home. He'll come back in time to cook dinner if he needs to, but then he'll leave right afterwards."

"He has time to go out all day?" Arthur said incredulously. It was frank to say that he always assumed that no high school student had a life.

"He does all his studying at Feliciano's or Kiku's house," Gilbert said dismissively. "And when he's not studying, he'll be with them anyway. Twenty-four seven. They're practically the Three Musketeers these days."

"I never knew that," Arthur said thoughtfully. "Rather stupid of me not to notice, actually. I usually don't see one without the others in the hallway."

"Mmm," Gilbert mumbled, resting his head on his hand arm on the table.

"Are you sure he won't come back today and kick me out?" joked Arthur.

"He wouldn't come home this early. And if he did, he wouldn't care what I do," Gilbert assured him.

"So long as he doesn't accuse me of—I don't know—invading your personal space too long and bodily throw me out," Arthur said, shrugging.

Gilbert laughed. "If you bother Feliciano too much, he would definitely do that to you."

"But not for you?" Arthur chuckled.

"I'm a big boy. I can destroy you if I wanted to," Gilbert said, giving his trademark crooked smile. Arthur threw a pencil at his head before taking another one out of his backpack and continuing on with his notes.

"Did I ever tell you I met him on the rooftop once?" Arthur said conversationally.

Gilbert raised an eyebrow. "Not exactly. What is all this about?"

"Funny story, actually," Arthur said. "To an extent. I was on the rooftop because—I thought I saw something—" He decided to leave the whole Puck incident out of the story. "—and then Ludwig saw me and he thought I was going to commit suicide and ran up to stop me."

Gilbert's mouth twitched into an ironic smile. "West. Good old West. Hey, he seems pretty efficient. If you really were going to jump, he would have come just in time to stop you, right?" His smile faded and he buried himself into his notes. "Perfect timing."

"Pfft, I'd have preferred it if he didn't come. My goodness, it was awkward trying to convince him I'm not planning to kick the bucket," Arthur said. "But he was a nice chap to talk to." Arthur vaguely wondered if it was all right to talk to Gilbert about what Ludwig had said about him. They weren't insulting at all—that meant it was okay, right?

"You guys didn't talk about me, did you?" Gilbert said skeptically, spinning a notebook on one finger. "Come now. Be a good gentleman and be honest to me."

Arthur scowled. Of course Gilbert would use his weak point. "Fine. I'll be a good, honest gentleman, because at least _I_ can be one." Gilbert threw an eraser at Arthur's nose. "Oi! Do you want me to talk to your or not?"

"Pardon, pardon," Gilbert chuckled, rubbing Arthur's nose. "There. All better. As you were saying?"

Arthur's eye twitched before he finally spoke. "Yes. We spoke about you."

"Was he complaining about me?" Gilbert said with a wry smile. "Feliciano accidentally let it slip that Ludwig almost always complained about me every day to him and Kiku."

"No," Arthur said carefully. Why was it that both Beilschmidt brothers assumed that the other hated them but never talked to one another? There was certainly an emotional barrier between them, but it was they themselves that were erecting it. "He says you never talk to him anymore."

Gilbert frowned immediately. "Me? Are you sure that's what he said?"

Arthur let out a sigh. "Yes. Why don't you have a conversation with him, anyway? You always say that he's—"

"—never even here for me to talk to. I told you, he's never home," Gilbert said briefly. "It's not like he's lacking communication or social needs. He gets enough of that with Kiku and Feliciano."

"Well, surely you all didn't spend your entire brotherhood not exchanging a single word, right?" Arthur pressed on.

"Of course not," Gilbert said reluctantly. He closed his textbook. "But then things happen. We sort of…found other people to talk to, I guess. We don't have to cling to each other anymore."

"Surely you're exaggerating," Arthur said, frowning.

"No," Gilbert muttered. "I don't think I am. I mean—it might just be some mental state I alone have that makes me think this, but—either way, it's still keeping us both from talking."

"Well, I always thought you were mental," Arthur said breezily.

"What—? Oi!" Gilbert exclaimed, affronted. "You're such a pal."

"I just can't really find the reason why you two would fall apart like that," Arthur said, shrugging. "I mean—look—" He spotted a photo album shoved in between two old stacks of last year's magazines near the bookshelf. He tapped his finger on it. "I bet that album is full of happy memories of you two together."

"We stopped scrapbooking three years ago," Gilbert said flatly.

Arthur sighed and shrugged. "Fine. Fine. May I look through it?"

"The pictures?" Gilbert said gruffly. "I don't see why not." He stood up from the ground. "I'm getting a drink. Need anything?"

"If you have any tea loaded with caffeine, I will certainly need it sooner or later," Arthur admitted, carefully pulling the blue photo album from the magazine pile. Gilbert disappeared into the kitchen as Arthur slowly flipped through the pages.

True to his predictions, there were quite a number of photographs of the Beilschmidt brothers in their youth tucked safely behind the plastic film. Both Gilbert and Ludwig looked very young and carefree, frozen in time. Arthur couldn't help but crack a smile at their youthful beams.

As he delved deeper into the album, the pictures of the two brothers became scarcer, true to Gilbert's word. Ludwig was usually surrounded by Kiku and Feliciano, Feliciano waving excitedly at the lens while Ludwig and Kiku had agitated yet amused looks on their faces. Any picture with Gilbert was either with two familiar faces Arthur recognized (Antonio was his name, wasn't it? And Francis?) or with a blond, bespectacled boy.

Arthur cocked his head curiously and squinted at one of the photos of Gilbert. This picture could have been taken when Gilbert was about fifteen or less. He bore his familiar crooked grin, though Arthur could immediately recognize that this smile was much wider and brighter than he had ever seen. Gilbert was sharing the photograph with a grinning blond boy who looked peculiarly like Matthew. As Arthur flipped the pages of the album, he saw how Matthew's look-alike kept cropping up every now and then.

Funny, Arthur never was under the impression that Gilbert and Matthew were good friends. He hadn't seen Gilbert actually communicate with Matthew during the couple weeks Arthur had shared the same school as them. It was also curious how Matthew's personality seemed so much different in the past. Arthur felt a cold pang in his heart. When did he become so quiet and withdrawn?

"One Earl Grey tea, coming right up, your Highness," Gilbert's voice announced as he came back from the kitchen. He sat down next to Arthur by the marble coffee table, sliding a mug of piping hot black tea toward him. "Done with that album yet?"

"No," Arthur said bluntly, blowing on the steaming tea. "I find it quite fascinating."

Gilbert groaned and sat cross-legged. "Have you completely forgotten about the Biology test?"

"This is a once in a lifetime chance to look at Gilbert Beilschmidt's baby pictures," Arthur protested, even though he had not come across any at all. "Who knows if you'll burn all of these in the dead of the night one day?"

"No way. I was a cute baby," Gilbert snorted. Arthur rolled his eyes before carefully flipping the page.

"Matthew is in here a lot," he commented. "Are you two close friends?"

Gilbert frowned with confusion. "What?"

"You know…" Arthur showed Gilbert the photos he was talking about. He pointed to the handsome blond boy beside Gilbert. "Him?"

"Oh," Gilbert said impassively. He leaned back, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. "Uh, that isn't Matthew. That's…that's Alfred."

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise. This was his first time ever laying eyes on the infamous Alfred Jones. He sighed bitterly to himself. No wonder Matthew was fretting upon his looks after Alfred's death; they looked extremely alike. It would have scared anyone half to death if they saw Matthew and thought Alfred had returned from the grave.

"There's no mistaking that he and Matthew are twins," Arthur remarked, handing the album back to Gilbert.

Gilbert pushed the photo album aside, refusing to spare it another glance. "You know, you are the first person to think Alfred was Matthew and not vice versa."

"How is it like that?" Arthur asked.

"Alfred was more boisterous, to say the least," Gilbert said, allowing himself to smile. "My word, was he the life of the school."

"Sounds like a troublemaker," Arthur added blithely.

"With good intentions," confirmed Gilbert. "He always thought he was doing things for the greater good…even when he filled Braginski's rucksack with snow and let it completely soak the books and bag." Gilbert let out a small laugh, his eyes glazed with recollection.

"Was this before or after the whole declaration of war against Ivan?" Arthur asked.

"After," Gilbert said. "A strange way to seek revenge, isn't it?" Gilbert shrugged. "Those were his much more minor retaliations. When he actually meant business…"

"I admire his courage," Arthur admitted in spite of himself. "It wasn't exactly the best strategy against a school bully, in my opinion, but his intentions were redeemable, I suppose."

A corner of Gilbert's lips lifted, but more as an act of resign than humor.

"Good friends, you two?" Arthur asked.

Gilbert shrugged silently. "I think."

"That isn't exactly the greatest answer," Arthur said lightly.

"Well, I always consider that kind of question to be debatable," Gilbert pointed out. "Even if _I_ considered him a good friend, there is all the chance in the world that he could have thought of me as an annoying, worthless piece of rubbish."

"You honestly don't think that of yourself, do you?" Arthur said suspiciously.

"Of course not. I'm amazing," Gilbert said too briskly. He stared down at his own mug of hot beverage and muttered something inaudibly.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that," Arthur said, concerned.

Gilbert looked up, perplexed, until his face flushed. "It was nothing."

"Sure," Arthur said sardonically. "Must have been my fairy friends whispering in my ear. I was certain I heard something."

"I wouldn't put that past you," Gilbert said, smirking. "I still remember you yelling at thin air about something vandalizing your homework."

Arthur's face grew warm and he haughtily gulped down his tea to fill in his lack of a biting response. The tea scorched his throat and he coughed violently.

"How long did you know Alfred?" Arthur asked. He wasn't sure if he was being insensitive for asking about someone who had been dead for less than a month, but it set his curiosity on fire and he was desperate to quench it.

"Since I was fourteen, maybe?" Gilbert estimated. "We weren't best pals for _that _long of a time—I was still clinging to West, Francis, and Antonio by then—but we were still mates, you know?" Gilbert finished scribbling a whole another page of notes and turned for a fresh sheet. "Apparently his folks tried to dissuade him from being friends with me at one point. Thought I was a bad influence because of my charm and roguish good looks; it just spells out your typical bad boy for you."

Arthur snorted skeptically. Gilbert smiled wryly and looked away from Arthur.

"Turns out they were right," Gilbert muttered, so softly Arthur could barely hear it. Arthur frowned in concern but did not press on. He knew he wasn't supposed to hear that. He coughed, feeling awkward.

"So," Arthur said casually. "About this chapter…I reckon that there will be an essay included, so we should guess what kind of questions she would ask us to report about and make practice essays."

"What would she ask about?" Gilbert mumbled, twirling his mechanical pencil between his fingers.

"I haven't the slightest idea. Maybe…how did the world begin? I don't know," Arthur said, tiredly skimming the pages of his textbook.

"If she asks that, I'm going to write down the first few chapters of Genesis and be done with it," Gilbert promised. Arthur smiled wryly. Gilbert crawled to the bookshelf and reached high up to retrieve a book from the top shelf. His long sleeve fell down slightly to reveal a brief glimpse of his arm.

Arthur gawked.

"Gilbert…?" Arthur said slowly as Gilbert crawled back to the coffee table.

"What?" Gilbert said, unaware of Arthur's uneasiness. Arthur was perplexed; surely it was just the trick of the eye. But he needed to find out.

"What was on your wrist?" Arthur said slowly, watching Gilbert's face carefully.

A dark shadow passed Gilbert's face, but it was so brief that Arthur almost didn't catch it. He swallowed and returned casually to his studying.

"I don't know. What was on it?" he said swiftly.

"I don't know," Arthur lied, knowing well what he suspected.

"There isn't anything on my wrist," Gilbert said shortly, writing faster than before. The tip of his mechanical pencil snapped off and he grumbled under his breath.

"Humor me; show me," Arthur demanded.

"What? No!" Gilbert protested immediately. "What do you want? There isn't anything! You probably saw a shine of light or something!"

"Reflecting off your flesh? I doubt it," Arthur argued.

"What do you think you saw, then?" Gilbert challenged.

"If I told you, you wouldn't let me check," Arthur muttered mutinously. Gilbert's eyes widened and he backed away immediately. "Gilbert—"

"You are completely distracting us from Biology studying!" Gilbert snapped, refusing to look into Arthur's face.

"You wouldn't be complaining about that if you were distracted by anything other than this," Arthur pointed out. "Let me see your wrist."

"What, do you have some sort of wrist fetish?" Gilbert said, aghast. "Am I some Japanese geisha and showing my wrist is a way of flirting?"

"Don't be ridiculous and don't be in denial!" Arthur shouted. He caught himself in mid-yell and quieted, urging himself to calm down. "Look—Gilbert—just tell me the truth. Are there or are there not scars on your wrist?"

Gilbert gave Arthur a long and hard stare. For a moment, Arthur thought that Gilbert would finally give in and tell the truth. After a moment, Gilbert finally opened his mouth to speak.

"There aren't," he said coldly.

"Liar," Arthur replied immediately. Gilbert did not retort. There was no need. He already knew he had dug himself into a very deep and inescapable hole. "Don't try to fool me, Beilschmidt. I know what I saw."

Gilbert drew his lips into a very thin line. He looked positively murderous, but he didn't move a single bit.

"You don't have to show them to me," Arthur said quietly. "I just want to know—are they from what I think they're from?"

"I don't know," Gilbert said coolly. "What do you think they're from?"

"What else?" Arthur muttered. "Yourself."

Gilbert stiffened. He leaned against the side of the sofa, biting his lip in concentration. Arthur had no idea what else to say to Gilbert. He never suspected Gilbert Beilschmidt of all people to do such a thing to himself. It didn't make sense; it was out of character; it was just far from what he expected.

Gilbert hesitated before putting his hand to the end of his sleeve. He gripped his wrist tightly, but did not move any more. He swallowed hard.

"You probably think—" Gilbert coughed. "—you probably think I'm pathetic, don't you?"

"No," Arthur said earnestly. Gilbert bit down hard on his lip. He dug his fingernails into his forearm.

"Be honest with me if you do," Gilbert insisted, shuddering. He let go of his wrist, letting it swing limply at his side. "Because I think I'm pathetic."

Arthur had no idea how to respond to that. He waited a moment, trapped in the awkward silence, before dropping the question.

"Why do you cut yourself?" Arthur said softly.

Gilbert let out a defeated chuckle. "I don't think I can call it that."

"Why not?" Arthur said suspiciously.

Gilbert chewed on the words that were close to leaving his mouth. Pure discomfort and shame was written on Gilbert's face, an expression rarely seen on the one and only Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"Never mind," Gilbert muttered.

"Don't give me that," Arthur protested immediately. "One doesn't go off one day and think, 'Hey, I should completely mutilate my arm just for the heck of it.'"

"I know! I know," snapped Gilbert. He recoiled from his own outburst. "I don't know…if it makes sense. Look—" He crossed his arms tightly across his chest as if cold. "I don't do it as some sort of therapy when I'm having a bad day or—or to make myself feel better—" He paused and chewed on his tongue before going on.

"I feel like I deserve it," Gilbert muttered. "At least, that's why—that's why I'm doing it…recently."

"Who in the world deserves that?" Arthur exclaimed. This was Gilbert, the same Gilbert who proclaimed his independence and awesomeness every day. Since when did he despise himself? "All for what? What could you have possibly done?"

"You don't understand," Gilbert said hurriedly, desperately, wildly. He knew in his heart that salvation was far from his reach if he was depending on such practices of self-discipline, but it _felt_ like he was being forgiven. That was all he needed—to _feel_ punished so he didn't think he was let out scot-free, escaped from the fate he should have had.

"Oh my word, Gilbert Beilschmidt," Arthur said breathlessly. He took in a deep, distressed breath, rubbing his forehead. "There are—my word—there are _so many_ different—_safer_—ways you could forgive yourself! What happened to 'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned' and such?"

"I know!" Gilbert repeated loudly, clutching the sides of his head wildly. "I know, I know, I know! But Arthur—" Gilbert's voice got caught in the middle of his throat and he seemed to choke on his own words.

"Even I can't forgive myself," Gilbert said through gritted teeth. "If I can't, how can anyone else? How can God? How can Alfred?"

"Why does Alfred need to forgive you?" Arthur said, aghast. "You're friends! He wouldn't want you to do this to yourself—"

"No. That's exactly it. He does," Gilbert interceded. He rose to his feet and was pacing anxiously across the living room. He stopped abruptly and held up his hands in defeat. "Okay—I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to see—that. Forget about it."

"Forget about it? You seriously don't think I'm just going to forget about it, do you?" Arthur argued. "Gilbert—" He approached him immediately. "You can't keep doing this to yourself."

"I know I can't," said Gilbert. "But I can't stop either." He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. "It wouldn't be fair."

"Does Ludwig know about this?" Arthur asked.

Gilbert's eyes shot open, wide with horror. "Of course not! My word, Artie—do you _think_ I would tell West that his older brother does this to himself? I'm not proud of what I do at all. I can't just—I can't let him know what a—what kind of brother I am!" Gilbert gripped Arthur's shoulder, shaking him slightly. "You can't tell him. I can't let him know. Please don't."

"I can't just keep my mouth shut after seeing what you do to yourself!" Arthur cried out. "What if you kill yourself one day?"

Gilbert gritted his teeth. "It wouldn't be your fault."

"Now you've com_pletely_ convinced me to tell someone," Arthur said, horror-struck. "Let me help you."

"I don't need help," Gilbert said immediately.

"You're daft," Arthur retorted. "Look—I can't force you to stop, because even if you promise me you won't—I doubt you'll keep it."

Gilbert gritted his teeth and strode past Arthur. He sat down next to the photo album, drawing his knees to his chest. Arthur stood next to him.

"But there must be something I can do to help," Arthur said softly.

"There isn't," Gilbert said shortly. He couldn't take his eyes off of Alfred's photo, which was unusual because every time he saw Alfred's photo, every time he saw a video or an email or even his handwriting scribbling an inside joke on Gilbert's notebook, Gilbert couldn't stand it. The questions and the fears would rush into his mind again and he couldn't stop thinking about Alfred, and it would hurt more and more every second longer.

He could recognize those bright blue eyes and remember too much. Even in his memory, Gilbert widened with shock when they saw what Gilbert did to himself, and then he saw them filled with curiosity, then cloud with defeat and resignation, and then fade and harden into lifeless death—

"But I know that I should've done it a long time—" Gilbert started to say. His face grew gray and for a split second Arthur feared that Gilbert would become ill.

"I should've died," Gilbert said very quietly. "But I was a coward." He closed his eyes and buried his face into his knees. "I was a coward."


	8. Chapter 8

**I started to realize that what I want to say in Author's Notes is getting way too long.**

**So, for convenience's sake, I made a tumblr account so that I could post my random thoughts regarding Hetalia, writing, or whatever it is that I usually post on ANs so that I could clear up enough space in updates for the actual story and so that readers who don't want to read what I'm thinking don't have to scroll all the way down to the story. **

**You may ask, what about that wordpress account you made some weeks ago?**

**I forgot the password for it. **

**I may actually use that tumblr to post any omakes I may want to add to any story I'm in the middle of writing but don't want to add to the actual story or publish a oneshot for it. There are also a lot of things I would love to tell you Hetalians about sometimes, but a lot of the time I can't put it on an Author's Note because it would seriously take way too long.**

**If there's anything important that I'd really want you to read, I'll tell you all via A/N. Otherwise, if you'd like, you could check on it every now and then on your own. I update it sporadically, whether it be daily or every other day. **

**Plus, I might drop tiny hints about new stories/chapters that will come on it…though it would be very inconspicuous :3. **

**I am http :/ mykingdomforapen. tumblr. com/**

**By the way, guys, check out my profile and go find a link to Krayonela's fanart. That awesome artist drew a picture for this story~ :D **

**...wow, that A/N was long.  
**

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Lizzy: Haha, I am looking forward to Thursdays as well nowadays XD. However, they also turn out to be my busiest days...Sometimes I wonder if I'm taking too much creative liberty, not just with this story but other ones that I'm planning out in my mind...there are like, three of them brewing in my imagination, begging to be published...XD Ahaha, yeah, I've read so much fanfiction with Russia going KOLKOLKOL that it's hard to flesh him out sometimes. Okay, all the time. I used to write all right for him, but now I'm struggling...Thank you for reading!**

**Tea Cup: Prussia is too sexy for me X.X Ahahaha~ Actually, the movie stuck very closely to the book 'The Pianist.' Of course, I never watched the movie in its entirety yet, but from what I gathered, it's very close. However, sometimes the book has excerpts from Hosenfeld's diary and it's very interesting to read what was going on through his mind. 'Catcher in the Rye' is one of my ultimate favorites...oh, if you haven't read 'Flyboys: A True Story of Courage' yet, I really recommend it. Made me cry :C. And it makes me appreciate American history a lot more. Haha, I'm happy that you like the music I share with you guys :D. Ahh, I hope everything is all right with you now D: . Thank you for reading!**

**Suzako: I don't think this chapter would help quench too much of your curiosity, but hopefully enough :'D. Thanks for reading!**

**The Krayon: Hello, you awesome artist~ :3. No worries; I am glad you read the other chapter anyway. Especially when you seem so busy, assuming that you are a college student...:'D. I enjoyed writing Arthur and Gilbert's friendship here. I don't know why, but it seems a little bit different from writing for the Bad Touch Trio's. Maybe because for once Gilbert has a sensible friend, ahahaha~ Thank you so much for the picture! I wonder how many times I'm going to say that...I already made it my profile picture in Facebook, my desktop picture, AND I posted it on my tumblr XD XD. Thanks for reading, too!  
**

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**"People are like icebergs…only one-tenth visible."**

**_-_****Judith Guest_, Ordinary People_**

Toris was shaking from head to toe.

This was stupid, he told himself. This was unneeded. Why in the world was he so nervous? It was just a casual conversation, after all. At least, he would _start_ with a casual conversation. Afterward it was probably downhill from there.

But for goodness' sake, why couldn't he stop shaking?

He never actually trembled unless Ivan was around, and he wasn't even nearby. Ivan wasn't even in this study hall.

Students were chattering around them rather than focusing on their homework, so Toris thought it would be a perfect opportunity. No one would be listening in, it wouldn't be awkward (at least, not as awkward as it could have been if everyone was listening in), and perhaps things would be all right again.

Be all right again…

Even to Toris, the slight idea seemed so unrealistic.

But he had to try. Give it his all. Do his best.

Or else everything would end up like—

_Focus, Toris, focus._

Toris slowly rose from his desk and wheedled his way toward Matthew's desk. No one heeded Toris as he snuck into a different seat. Even Matthew did not seem to notice. He was staring at his textbooks with marble eyes, not actually absorbing any of the information. It was no wonder why his grades were slipping so dramatically.

Toris sat down in the empty desk in front of Matthew. He cleared his throat nervously, trying to get Matthew's attention. Matthew didn't even hear Toris.

"Um…" Toris started off, his voice very soft. "Matthew?"

Matthew looked up and finally regarded Toris's presence. He closed his textbook with an air of defeat, giving up entirely on studying.

"Hey, Toris," Matthew said tiredly, tossing the book carelessly aside. "Do you need anything?"

"No," Toris admitted. How in the world was he supposed to start this? "It's just—I was wondering—how are you?"

Matthew blinked. He gave a short shrug. "Fine."

Toris knew that Matthew was handing him a blatant lie. He never mentioned it, but he was very aware of Matthew's attempt to completely change his appearance, his slipping grades, his lack of energy or sleep, his absolute silence. He saw it all and this time he wasn't going to let it pass by.

Not like before.

"How are things at home?" Toris asked politely.

Matthew shrugged again. He wouldn't look at Toris in the eyes. Toris could feel his confidence sap away already, but he clung to it as tightly as he could. He couldn't just give up now. He barely even started.

"Are you—?"

"I think I know what you're trying to do," Matthew interrupted calmly. Toris felt his heart jolt with surprise and apprehension.

"What do you mean?" he said nervously.

"You're acting like a guidance counselor," Matthew said simply, sneaking a glance up at Toris's face. Toris drew his lips into a thin line.

"Maybe I am," Toris admitted. "But with good intentions."

"I know that," Matthew said jadedly, resting his chin on his hands. He did not say any more.

"Are you all right?" Toris asked gently. "I'm—I noticed that you're different—"

"It's inevitable, isn't it?" Matthew interjected flatly.

"—and it worries me a lot," Toris finished defiantly. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Matthew—really, if you ever need to talk to anyone—"

"I don't need to," Matthew said summarily. "It's fine, Toris."

"It isn't," Toris said immediately. It was all so similar. The déjà vu. The words. But it shouldn't be a surprise, should it? Matthew was _his_ brother. "There's—there's no use in trying to deny it, Matthew."

Matthew didn't reply, and this time Toris didn't even expect Matthew to. Matthew was digging his fingernail into the derogatory words carved onto the smooth surface of the desk that were years old. Toris was gripping the edge of the back of his seat, his palms sweating. Why was it so hard to comfort someone? He felt as if every time he was confronted with such a situation his fight-or-flight instincts starts kicking in and he had no idea why.

"I already told you," Matthew said in an empty voice. "I'm dealing with it on my own. No—I've gotten _over_ it on my own."

Toris bit his lip, knowing quite well that Matthew was far from recovery. He felt nervousness pervade through his senses. This was going completely the wrong way. How was he supposed to react to this?

"I'm worried about you," Toris finally admitted. "Matthew—you may claim that you are completely fine, but you don't seem that way at all."

"You don't have to worry about me!" Matthew said sharply, his voice bordering angry. "I don't _want_ or _need_ your help!"

Matthew immediately regretted his harshness. The guilt hit him like the blow that he should have deserved. Toris was one of Alfred's friends as well. He suffered as much loss as Matthew did.

_But not the guilt. _

_It's all mine._

Toris withdrew quietly, his light eyes greatly saddened. He gave a soft sigh before nodding with defeat. Matthew could feel him recoiling and giving up, and for a moment he wanted to reach out and pull him back. No. Don't leave. I didn't mean any of that.

I didn't mean any of that.

I need someone.

I'm scared.

I'm broken.

I don't know anymore.

But his thoughts never formed into words, and they never would. Matthew watched helplessly as Toris gave a small nod and rose from his seat.

"Right. I'm sorry for bothering you," Toris said quietly. "I just…I hope you know that—well—you can trust me. If you ever need to talk to anyone, I'm here."

Matthew jerked his head away from Toris, opting to stare at the trashcan. Toris closed his eyes and took a deep breath before walking away, leaving Matthew behind to be trapped inside himself. He felt chained back and he couldn't be free. Why wouldn't he let himself be free?

_Why would I deserve it?_

Matthew closed his eyes and tried to keep his breathing steady.

His fists shook and his fingernails were now embedding into his palm. He wondered how much he had to pray to bring Alfred back.

* * *

"Well, you look a little down."

Toris looked up tiredly at Arthur, who was standing beside his desk during calculus. He gave a little shrug before turning back to his workbook.

"Are my emotions really that visible?" Toris asked lightly.

"Quite," Arthur said. He tossed his rucksack to his desk and sat in the one next to Toris. "What's wrong? Is everything all right?"

"I don't know," Toris confessed. "I'm just a little confused, I guess."

"Confusion doesn't look that despondent," said Arthur.

"Confusion comes in many ways," Toris mumbled. He rubbed his eyes as if drowsy.

"Apparently it does. Why are you confused?" Arthur asked.

"It's just—well, I tried to talk to Matthew some classes ago."

"I see," Arthur said, leaning forward.

"I'm…well, he's going through a really rough time. I can tell. Anyone can tell," Toris said. "I want to help him. I really do. But when I try, it just doesn't…seem…enough." He pursed his lips and rested his chin on his hands, trying to formulate the words.

"What do you mean by 'enough'?" asked Arthur.

"It doesn't make a difference," Toris exclaimed. "Arthur—I see so many people hurting but I can't bring myself to do anything about it! I never can. God, even when I try it's no use."

"Why do you think it's no use?" Arthur asked, feeling oddly like a guidance counselor.

"It isn't hard to see," Toris said, "because they're still…broken."

Arthur sucked on his bottom lip contemplatively. "Well, no one is the perfect therapist." Story of his life.

"But I don't understand," Toris said painfully. "Why am I no help?" He cradled his head in his arms on his desk. "I'm never any help."

Arthur let out a small sigh. "I hear what you mean," he muttered.

"And I'm _worried_ for Matthew," Toris said anxiously. "You see him now—he wasn't like this before. He was quiet, yes, but this—this is not him anymore. Ever since Alfred died, he's just never been the same. I can understand that, but now it's reaching the point where I'm almost afraid that Matthew will follow his footsteps."

Follow his footsteps? What did Toris mean by that?

"It isn't your fault," Arthur tried to console. "You tried your best, right? But considering what Matthew's going…what everyone's going through…it's going to take a lot of time."

"It's been nearly a month," Toris murmured. His face grew slightly paler. "But what if I wasn't trying hard enough—?"

"My word, Toris," Arthur exclaimed. "I may have only known you for some weeks, but I certainly can tell you wouldn't just be halfhearted about something as serious as that."

Toris hesitated, his lips drawing into a very thin line. Before he could say something, a hand with bright colored papers slammed down on Arthur's desk, making Arthur jump and almost fall out of his seat.

"Good afternoon to you too!" Arthur said grimly.

"Just pass the stupid sheet down your row!" Lovino growled before stomping off to the next row to pass out the papers.

"What is this?" Arthur asked, passing the papers behind him. Toris retreated to his seat as well. Arthur lifted the colored flier to read.

"Our _stupid_—" Lovino slammed another pile of papers on another row. The student in the front seat jumped with shock. "—idiotic—" He nearly ripped the papers in half as he tore them from his pile. "—and ignorant guidance counselor and principal think that we need some sort of _outside help_ to get through shit!"

"…Pardon?" Arthur said tentatively. He glanced down at the notice in his hands and skimmed the contents. "A guest speaker is coming?"

"A _counselor_!" corrected Antonio, who was sitting behind Arthur. He was squinting at the paper, his eyebrows furrowed in worry. "Why would we need a counselor?"

"What other reason, you idiot?" Lovino snapped. "Because of that—that—_bastard_!"

"Who?" Arthur asked, but his question was completely ignored.

"Why does he want to do that to us?" Antonio asked, perplexed and hurt. "It's not something you can get instructions to get over…"

"Exactly," griped Lovino. "We were going on fine on our own! We were almost getting over it on our own and then they spring this piece of hell on us!"

Arthur turned back to the flier. Though it announced in inky words about a guest speaker coming soon, it never mentioned the reason why.

"Pardon me for asking, but what exactly is this for?" Arthur demanded, though he had a good idea what this was all about.

"Hell with you," Lovino said shortly.

"No, no, Lovi," Antonio said worriedly. He gave a soft sigh and small shrug at Arthur. "The paper doesn't say it, but we can tell that it's for—it's for Alfred. You know…they think we all need help getting through his death."

Arthur nodded grimly when Antonio confirmed his guess. "That's what I thought. Since when did the school try to interfere with the students' emotions and mind and such? That's something that should be voluntary, not a mandatory assembly."

"I know," Antonio said miserably. "It's—"

"Why the hell do we need to be reminded of that?" Lovino snarled, his face reddening at every word. "They want to give a _ceremony_ for that bastard. Why do we need a ceremony to remember that? Like hell any one of us forgot it by now!"

"Well, they're just trying to help—" Arthur tried to reason.

"Shut up," Lovino shot at Arthur. "You don't know what this is about anyway."

"I beg your pardon!" Arthur said sharply, affronted. "I know exactly what you mean by all of this! I know it's about Alfred and his death and that—"

"D-don't say his name!" Lovino demanded. He winced and shrunk away from Arthur.

"You aren't turning him into the next Lord Voldemort, are you?" Arthur said exasperatedly.

"I might as well be," Lovino said in a low voice.

"Why? What has he ever done?" Arthur said incredulously. "He died and you hate him now?"

"Of course I am!" Lovino yelled to Arthur's surprise. He balled the colored paper into a wrinkled ball and chucked it at the recycling bin. "Is it some unspoken rule that you shouldn't hate the dead? That once they kick the bucket they suddenly become a goddamn _saint_?"

"I just don't see how he should be to blame!" Arthur pointed out firmly.

"See? You don't know what's up!" Lovino hurled at Arthur. "You never knew him, anyway! He wasn't even the Good Samaritan when he was alive either! Look what he did to Makisig! Look what he did to that other poor son of a bitch! Now we're _honoring _him? Why are we honoring him for leaving us?"

"We aren't honoring him, the flier says—" Antonio tried to say.

"I know for a fact that it isn't going to tell the whole truth!" Lovino said angrily. "That counselor person isn't going to tell us how much of an asshole Alfred was—"

"Stop that!" Arthur interrupted sharply. He felt his anger flare inside of him. How could Lovino hate Alfred so much while Matthew and Gilbert and everyone else were still trying to heal from the pain? "Why are you so angry at Alfred?"

"He didn't get murdered or died after a long battle with cancer or any of that," Lovino hissed, spinning toward Arthur. His previous wariness of the Briton was completely dissipated. He looked like he was on fire. "He _wanted_ to _leave_ us. And bastards are saying, 'Oh, the poor soul,' or 'Why did it have to be this way?' He did it himself. His choice. So stop shoving the blame onto other things."

Arthur jerked back in surprise, piecing the puzzle together. His memory flashed back to that time in English class when they were discussing _Ordinary People_ and when Lovino was livid about Conrad's attempt to suicide and Matthew's indignation to his anger. He remembered Alfred's name slipping into the conversation. And now this…

Was Lovino saying that Alfred—?

The door to the classroom suddenly slammed shot with a deafening bang. All the students nearly jumped out of their skin and spun toward the door, their hearts beating wildly. The teacher was at the door, his sharp green eyes scrutinizing the students suspiciously.

"I could hear all your voices from three hallways away," the teacher said dangerously. "Thirteen classes were interrupted by all of you and couldn't move on. I'm sorry that you think that this…guest speaker is futile," his eyes flickered toward Lovino, who was still standing next to Antonio and Arthur, "but it's because of situations like _this_ that convince the principal that you need one. Take your seat, Mr. Vargas."

Lovino gave a withering glare at the teacher before stomping toward his seat. The teacher gave a sigh before walking to the front of the classroom.

"Take out your inquiry activity packets and get back into your groups from yesterday," the teacher ordered. "Continue working on them until the end of class. Those who have finished shall move on to the textbook problems on page three hundred and seven. Begin."

The class was filled with the noise of metal table legs scraping on the linoleum floor. Arthur shoved his desk next to Francis, his partner. He threw his inquiry activity onto the desk, his mind far away from calculus.

"How far are we?" Francis said casually, flipping through the packet.

"Question fourteen," Arthur answered. He furrowed his eyebrows as he jabbed the buttons on his graphing calculator. He cast a curious glance up at Francis.

"Hey," Arthur said loudly. Francis took his time to look up at Arthur, his eyebrow raised in curiosity.

"Oui?" Francis said blithely.

"You never told me how Alfred died," Arthur said, lowering his voice as to not attract attention. The other students around him did not pay attention to them, focusing their attention on their math. Francis didn't respond readily, scribbling math work on the paper.

"You never asked, Angleterre," Francis said simply.

"Why do you call me that?" Arthur asked. He didn't wait for an answer. "Was it suicide?"

He almost wished that it wasn't suicide. He didn't want to know that all this was a result of one deliberate choice.

"Yes," Francis said, giving Arthur a dull blow in the stomach. "It was suicide. All right?" His voice was heavy with scorn toward Arthur.

Arthur felt slightly shameful for his inquisitiveness. He bowed his head and hid his discomfort with calculus.

_Thinking about it now, _Arthur thought glumly to himself. _It was all so obvious that it was suicide. _The entire argument during _Ordinary People_ about suicide was screaming with evidence.

Arthur thought about Matthew, and how he tried to change his identity to keep himself from being confused with Alfred, and how even Toris could not do anything to help after a month. He thought of Gilbert and the prospect of scars down his arms. Of Lovino's spitting anger and indignation. Of Ivan apologizing for Alfred's death.

And it was all caused by one, lone choice.

How could he?

Arthur's pencil scratched on the thick packet, scarring the paper since he pressed so hard on it. His mind was barely absorbing the calculus he was supposed to study.

All that pain that plagued the entire school body, the silence, the loneliness, the pain was all caused _on purpose?_

Arthur was gripping his mechanical pencil tightly, his fingerprints stamping on the rubbery grip.

But why? What had pushed Alfred to that choice? He had friends: Toris and Gilbert were certainly fond of him. His brother did not hate him; in fact, they seemed extremely close. His grades were not slipping, because when Arthur was passing out the essays on his first day of school Alfred had received high marks on his essay. He thought of Ivan and Alfred's war against him, but was it considered bullying if Alfred fought back?

Why did he kill himself?

_Snap_.

The piece of graphite splintered from the pencil, piercing a hole in the paper while it was at it. Arthur flinched in surprised when he had pressed the pencil against the paper too hard. He shook his head, clearing his mind before pushing his thumb down on the top of the mechanical pencil for more lead before continuing on.

His mind would not leave Alfred.

_Why? _


	9. Chapter 9

**Just to warn you all now, next week I have an opening night of my school's play I have to perform in, so updating time will be a little out of wonk. I'll probably update an hour or two earlier than usual on Thursday, so keep an eye open. **

**Especially since the next chapter is actually pretty important…**

**Also, please see my tumblr for my words about Veterans' Day :'D.**

**Happy Veterans' Day to all of you from America~**

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Tea Cup: Haha, I'm glad that Thursdays have become special to you 8D. Ahh, yes...I suppose we all can relate to it some way or another, whether we're in that particular situation or not ^_^;;;. Glad to hear that you're reading it! I feel like it's sort of my little place to open up just a tad :D. Yes, that very same Alfred F. Jones XD. As for why...well, you'll see. Puck told you, I see? Well, he does know a lot more than people credit him for~ Thanks for reading!**

**The Krayon: Even though one question is cleared up, it introduces a bunch more XD. Oh, I love having control over this story~ *shot* I had so much fun writing for Lovino...the angry and honest ones are always the most interesting. And your picture****s**** bring happiness to me XD. My parents showed both your pictures of my two stories to my grandparents and aunt and they were like AIYA, HAO PIAO LIANG! 8D Thanks a bunch!**

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Ludwig reluctantly made his way through the hallways, lugging the messenger bag packed with papers on his shoulder. School had ended for the weekend and practically all the students had left for home. However, Ludwig was forced to stay after hours and work for the student council. Normally Ludwig would accept the responsibility and position with honor, but this task was one no one wanted.

He opened the door to the usual meeting room for the student council, which was the Latin classroom. No one had arrived before him, and he did not expect many to come afterward. He had overheard many members discussing that they were going to skip this meeting despite their responsibilities and the possibility of being kicked off the council. Normally such a threat would convince them to stick to the task no matter the troubles, but this was different.

Ludwig wasn't even sure why he was willing to stick around. Why would he want to arrange an assembly that would only remind him how horribly guilty he was? If anyone, he should be the one rebelling against the school and skipping the meeting. However, no one else was willing to do it. He couldn't just abandon the student council.

He leaned his forehead against the cool windowpane of the glass that overlooked the soccer field below. He could see the Vargas twins on the field, but they were not playing ball like they usually did. They only stood in the sidelines, as still as statues. One of them was crouching on the ground, unmoving. They stayed like that for a while before the other fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around the other. Ludwig's heart panged, for he could suspect what was the reason of their apparent pain.

It was his fault, wasn't it?

Someone knocked on the door and Ludwig spun around. He saw Arthur on the other side and he let out a sigh of relief. He opened the door to let Gilbert's friend inside.

"For a moment I thought you weren't going to come," admitted Ludwig.

"An English gentleman never backs down on his word," Arthur said loftily. He tossed his rucksack onto a desk. "Besides, when the student council has to practically advertise themselves to ask for help from the students, then you know something is wrong."

"You know what you're signing yourself up for, don't you?" Ludwig said worriedly.

"Of course I do," Arthur reassured. "It's about that counselor, isn't it? We have to arrange everything for his arrival."

Ludwig nodded grimly. Arthur let out a tired sigh.

"I don't understand why the principal made the student council deal with this when it was the adults who decided this in the first place," Arthur confessed. "Where are the other members?"

"There isn't anyone else coming," Ludwig said awkwardly.

"Why not?" asked Arthur. "Surely this school has a student council of some size besides one person, right?"

"It does…the others just don't want to deal with this," Ludwig said. "In all honesty, I don't want to do it either. If I didn't know that others weren't going to come, I wouldn't have."

"No one wants to be forced into this, huh?" Arthur said. Ludwig shook his head.

"I'm not fit for this job," Ludwig blurted out, unzipping his bag. "What if I plan out something and it's actually besmirching his memory and I never knew it?"

"Funny how you were reluctant about this," Arthur said slowly. "Gilbert was under the impression that you did this willingly."

"What?" Ludwig said, surprised. "How do you know? He actually mentioned me in your conversations?"

"Don't be like that," Arthur scolded. "Anyway, I was talking to him about it during advanced biology. He said he wished you would just skip the meeting and go home. I'm guessing that he thinks if everyone in the student council boycotts the meeting, then it would give the principal a little hint."

Ludwig nodded, his face burning. He should have expected some kind of reaction like this from Gilbert. Ever since Alfred's suicide, Gilbert had been uncomfortable about any conversation relating to death, suicide, or Alfred.

"No one wants this. I know Gilbert and Lovino certainly don't," Arthur continued on, pulling his ink pen out of his bag. "I overheard Matthew and Toris saying how much they didn't like this either. But who knows? Maybe it would be help."

"It wouldn't. I know it wouldn't," Ludwig muttered. "One person can't stop an entire student body from mourning. Do they think that we're all going to return to normal after this?"

"Or maybe no one wants to have this because they don't want to be reminded of Alfred," Arthur said contemplatively. "I don't know—I've been talking to some people—Lovino, to be exact—and that's the impression I got."

"I would think that Lovino Vargas would give you more than just an impression," said Ludwig.

"Well, the school isn't trying to be spiteful or anything," Arthur said optimistically. "They think it's the right thing, something that would help the kids. They aren't trying to rub salt in their wounds."

"People usually don't do the right thing, even though they should," Ludwig muttered, sitting in a desk.

Arthur raised an eyebrow confusedly. He sat down on the desk opposite Ludwig's and leaned forward curiously.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked.

"Just shooting the breeze," Ludwig said tiredly. Arthur pursed his lips and shook his head.

"You're just as elusive as Gilbert."

Those words pierced Ludwig in the back of his heart. He tried to look away, to hide his reaction. To hear that his own older brother, who used to be so talkative and optimistic and open, was now reclusive and nearly silent, was a harsh blow.

"He usually isn't, you know," Ludwig said calmly, his eyes locked on the wood scratching on the desk. One student had the audacity to carve '_Fuck this' _on the wood. Ludwig traced his finger on the words. Could Alfred have been the one to write this before permanently pulling himself out of this 'fucked world?' "He used to be blatantly honest and didn't have a care about what anyone else said about him. Now he barely talks."

Arthur rested his chin on his interlaced fingers, propping his elbows on the desk. "I guess that's why the school thinks we need this. Because everyone is still so shell-shocked from the event that—well, it's almost frightening."

Ludwig gave a short shrug. "Doesn't matter the reasons or what others think, huh? The fact is, we still have to plan it out."

"Shall we start now?" Arthur asked, pulling out an empty notebook.

"Yes. Of course," Ludwig said quickly. He and Arthur put their heads together to carefully map out the schedule, but Ludwig's mind could not focus on the assignment. Too many questions plagued him.

He tried so hard not to think about Alfred, but it was inevitable. His mind would always wander toward Alfred, even when he least expected it. He couldn't stop asking himself why. Why did Alfred do that to himself? What had driven Alfred to take the knife from the kitchen counter and carve the life out of him? Did he regret it during his last seconds, or did he welcome death warmly?

_If you followed your gut, would any of this happen?_

_Does that mean you're the cause of Gilbert, Matthew, Lovino, Toris, everyone's pain? _

_Why didn't you do it?_

He didn't even know the answer.

* * *

_Ludwig was running as fast as he could, his feet nearly sliding down the stairs as he clambered up from one floor to the next. What if he was too late? He had seen what was going on from the second story window not too long ago…surely it couldn't have happened yet. He did not hear a thud or the crack of bones—but could he even hear such a thing if he was indoors? What if he finally reached the top and only found a pile of bloody bones on the ground? _

_Ludwig scrambled onto the ladder leading to the rooftop. His heart and mind were racing as he quickly unlocked the trapdoor and threw it open. He felt the cool wind rustle his hair as he pulled himself on to the rooftop. He searched wildly on the roof, praying that he wasn't too late. _

_"Wait!" Ludwig yelled. The familiar figure spun around with surprise at his voice. Ludwig dragged himself to his feet and hurried toward him. "Don't! Stop!" _

_Ludwig recognized the boy standing at the edge of the roof. It was Alfred Jones, one of Gilbert's friends. The thought made Ludwig panic even more. What was he doing here? _

_"What are you doing?" Ludwig exclaimed, aghast. "Don't do it!" _

_Alfred stared at Ludwig curiously before his eyes widened with realization. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened it once more. _

_"What are you talking about?" Alfred asked confusedly._

_Ludwig gawked at Alfred, first with disbelief, then with complete bemusement. He had seen Alfred hanging off the edge of the roof, reeling over the edge. Surely it could only mean one thing…_

_"Weren't you going to jump?" Ludwig asked nervously. _

_"Of course not!" Alfred said readily. "I was just looking around for someone. I know that he was somewhere outside but I wasn't sure where."_

_"O-oh…" Ludwig felt his skin sear with embarrassment. He rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry. I thought you were about to jump and I got—well, it seemed as if you were about to fall…" _

_Alfred gave out a loud laugh. "That's stupid! Come on, Luddy, you know me. You know I wouldn't do it, right?" His voice was almost demanding, which confused Ludwig. _

_"It was hard to tell it was you from where I was anyway," Ludwig said defensively. "It was an honest mistake. I'm sorry. Just…couldn't you have done it any other way?" _

_"No," Alfred said quickly. "I thought this would be the best way. Covers more ground, see?" _

_"Right," Ludwig said with uncertainty. "Just—come down, won't you? You're worrying me." _

_"Aw, Luddy, I don't need anyone to worry about me!" Alfred laughed. "I take care of myself and all those around me! Come on, what am I? A hero. That's right." The words seemed to spill readily from his lips as if rehearsed. _

_"Please, just get down from there," Ludwig urged. "Who are you looking for, anyway? Matthew? He's down in the parking lot." _

_"No, not him. I'm staying after school," Alfred said breezily. "I'm looking for Gilbo."_

_"Gilbo…Gilbert?" Ludwig shook his head. "He's not outside. I haven't seen him. Come on, Alfred. Get back in here." _

_Alfred hesitated, his bright face suddenly darkening with a strange thought. Before Ludwig could figure it out, Alfred gave a casual shrug and made his way toward Ludwig, his hands in his pockets. _

_"Gilbo was right, huh?" Alfred said jokingly. "You really are paranoid." _

_Ludwig gritted his teeth. "Not without good reason."_

_"Come on, Luddy," Alfred said, his voice strangely strained. "Don't get your underwear in a knot. There's nothing about me you have to worry about." _

_"Just come on," Ludwig ordered. "If anyone caught you on the roof, the teachers would kill you."_

_"I'd be one step ahead," Alfred muttered, but Ludwig had heard. He raised his eyebrows at Alfred. _

_"Couldn't you have just called Gilbert's cell phone to find him?" Ludwig said skeptically. Alfred chewed the inside of his lip and gave a small shrug. _

_"I guess, but you know, my uh—my cell phone is dead," Alfred said lamely. "It was nothing. It's not urgent." He clapped a large hand on Ludwig's broad shoulder. "Well, I'm off, little Luddy. Thanks for nothing." _

_"Don't mention it," Ludwig said shamefacedly, still red in the cheeks after the embarrassing assumption he made. Alfred chuckled grimly and patted Ludwig's back. _

_"Yeah…yeah," he said quietly. He saluted Ludwig before running from him as fast as he could, leaving Ludwig alone and confused in the hallway. He couldn't help but feel his guts tighten with suspicious anxiety. There was something about Alfred that was unsettling, almost frightening, even though Alfred acted nothing less than cheerful. _

_But who was he to pry? Alfred was Gilbert's friend; if there was anything strange going on, Gilbert would know. Gilbert would fix anything if there was a problem. So Ludwig merely forgot about the situation and never brooded on it again._

_Something he would regret three months later._

* * *

_It must have been nine in the evening when Ludwig returned home. He was tired; Feliciano had taken up all his energy like he did almost every day and all he wanted to do was go to sleep even if it was the weekend. It was strange to think that the only times he was home was when he was sleeping. _

_Just as he opened the front door, Gilbert on the other side was trying to get out. He nearly stumbled into Ludwig as he tried to push the door open. Ludwig stepped aside instinctively._

_"You're back early," Gilbert said bluntly, watching Ludwig warily. Ludwig gave a jerky shrug. _

_"I'm tired," Ludwig mumbled. He realized that this was probably the longest conversation he and Gilbert had for a long time and couldn't help but feel awkward. _

_Gilbert set his jaw and chewed on the corner of his lip. "I hope you don't mind that Alfred's here. He's staying over."_

_"Alfred…ah! Of course I don't mind. But then, where are you going?" _

_"I'm going to my secret mafia meeting where we're plotting a bank robbery and a suicide bombing mission," Gilbert said with an extremely straight face. _

_"Go on then," Ludwig said monotonously. Gilbert shook his head and left the house toward the garage. Ludwig slipped into the house and locked the door behind him. _

_"He-ey, Luddy," Ludwig looked up to see Alfred in the foyer. To Ludwig's surprise, he seemed more gaunt and weary than the last time he saw him. The hooded sweatshirt Alfred wore seemed to swallow him whole._

_"You look terrible," Ludwig said bluntly, tossing his rucksack into the coat closet. _

_"Psht, that's impossible," Alfred said cheerily, his voice slightly hoarse._

_"So what is Gilbert really doing?" Ludwig demanded._

_"Didn't you ask him?" Alfred asked._

_"He just said something foolish about a suicidal mafia," Ludwig muttered. Alfred cocked his head to one side._

_"Like I said: did you _ask_ him?" _

_Ludwig frowned, bemused. Alfred cracked a smile and shook his head. Ludwig rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and yawned._

_ "How've you been doing?" he muttered out of obligation. _

_ "Huh," Alfred responded. He didn't even answer the question properly. Ludwig took that as a 'fine' and left it at that. _

_"What are you doing here?" Ludwig asked casually. "Study session?"_

_"Hell, no," Alfred laughed. "God, Luddy, not everyone is the star son like you are. You are the star son, aren't you?" His voice seemed heavy and oppressing. _

_Ludwig cast Alfred a wary and confused glance. "I don't know what you mean."_

_"Of course you do," Alfred said casually. "You just don't want to admit it." _

_"You're not talking much sense," Ludwig said warily, wanting very much to leave the room and lock himself in his bedroom. _

_"Maybe you should try solving the riddles," Alfred said simply, shrugging. Ludwig shook his head and rubbed his eyes._

_"Alfred, I'm not up for riddles right now. I just need to get to bed," Ludwig pleaded. "Good night, all right?" He made his way toward the staircase._

_"Hey, Ludwig." _

_Ludwig reluctantly turned around, halfway up the stairs. Alfred was leaning on the wall, seemingly engrossed with the fingernails on his left hand. It wouldn't seem like Alfred was talking to Ludwig at all if someone merely spied on the scene and did not hear his voice. _

_"Yes?" Ludwig said jadedly._

_"You know how you caught me on the rooftop that one day?" Alfred said calmly. "And I said I was looking for Gilbert and all? And that I wasn't going to jump off?" _

_"…yes," Ludwig said slowly. Alfred gave Ludwig the briefest glance, a heavily ironic smile on his lips. _

_"I lied," Alfred said plainly. _

_Before Ludwig could protest a single word, the front door opened once more. Gilbert was coming back inside, carrying a battered shoebox in his arms. Alfred discreetly put his finger to his smiling lips before Gilbert could see. Ludwig could only stare incredulously at Alfred, disbelief and shock slowly creeping up on him. _

_"Well, good night, Luddy," Alfred said innocently, waving cheerily up at Ludwig._

_Ludwig was frozen to the spot. He remained there even when Gilbert and Alfred left the foyer to the basement. He suddenly felt very cold and it became hard to breathe. _

_Was Alfred being serious? _

_He needed to tell someone fast. He needed someone else to know that Alfred had tried to do himself in. He couldn't deal with the knowledge all by himself. By goodness, did even Gilbert know about this? _

_But what if he was wrong? What if he was jumping to conclusions and that Alfred really wasn't suicidal (All the fingers were pointing to one answer, how in the world was he wheedling himself out of it?)? There were too many uncertainties and not enough truth. Everything he was basing his thoughts off of was merely debunked lies. _

Tell someone.

Someone has to know.

You can't just keep this a secret.

_But Ludwig couldn't bring himself to do it. _

_He couldn't muster the will to speak up to anyone. _

_So he never said a word. _

_He had failed. _

What if he spoke?

If he had told someone that Alfred wanted to die, would Alfred have gotten help?

Would Alfred have lived?

Ludwig couldn't deal with the fact that if he had pushed aside his pride and suspicion and indifference and told someone, he could have saved so many from tragedy.

Alfred wouldn't have committed suicide.

Gilbert wouldn't be so broken and distant.

Lovino wouldn't be filled with so much anger or hatred.

Everyone would have been okay.

_But he didn't._

And it was all too late.

Ludwig couldn't help but remember that moment and wonder if Alfred was testing Ludwig. Alfred could have been clinging to one more reason to live if the one person he spoken truthfully to would have sought help. Alfred's life could have been _depending_ on Ludwig's actions.

And Ludwig had let so many down.

_I'm sorry, Alfred._

_I'm sorry, Matthew._

_I'm sorry, Gilbert, Lovino, Toris, Antonio, Francis, everyone. _

_It was all me. _


	10. Chapter 10

**Early update today guys! The opening show of my school's play is in one hour and fifty minutes...I need to leave as soon as I publish this...**

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Tea Cup: I just noticed you had a tumblr :3. Haha, quite honestly I didn't expect anyone to cry last chapter...in fact, I actually don't see this entire story as one where a reader could cry easily. It seems a bit shadier than that to me. Hmm? Anorexia? What do you mean? Haha, don't worry if you don't remember. You have a tune for Gilbert's song to Eliza? Wahh, I never knew! 8D That's pretty awesome~ D'aww, I want to pet your Gilbo cat now XD. Thank you for reading!**

**Viva here D: Ahhh, I'm glad that Krayonela told you about this story! ^_^ It really makes me happy that you took the time to read it and enjoyed it. Yeah, this story is sort of like me reminiscing about things happening in school as well. You'll see, you'll see...XD Thanks a bunch for reading!**

**Krayon: I hope your stress is relaxing a little more D: . I'm really honored that you squeeze in my story in the midst of your college schedule. It really means a lot to me. Haha, yeah, Alfred was a tad strange last chapter, eh? ;D Ludwig definitely has it pretty bad...whether or not he has it better off than the others, well, you can determine yourself :3. Thanks for the review!**

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"**More than one soul dies in suicide."**

**-Anonymous**

Although Arthur was fully aware that other students were very reluctant about the seminar that the student body was forced to attend, Arthur couldn't help but feel that if any one student was allowed to opt out of it, it should have been him.

He had never met Alfred, nor did he feel emotionally attached to the boy. The only thing he felt for Alfred was extreme indignation that Alfred had caused so much silence and pain in his classmates. Other than that, Arthur did not feel at all moved or emotionally altered as he sat in the auditorium, nearly falling asleep as the garrulous counselor droned on and on with strangely varying tones.

"This is boring." Arthur looked to his right to see Puck the fairy lounging on the armrest, yawning. He was curled up in a ball. "Bo-o-oring. Why aren't you doing something more productive?"

"I'd like to ask you the same thing," Arthur said from the corner of his mouth. Puck grinned devilishly and he leaned forward, cupping his ear.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you," he said sweetly. "Can you repeat that?"

Arthur shot a glare at the fairy, noticing the ploy immediately. "Why can't you be a more useful fairy for once?"

"I'm not your slave!"Puck hissed indignantly.

"No, you aren't useful because your magic is mediocre," Arthur said spitefully.

"Says the person who tried to curse one of his classmates back in the fifth year and ended up catching his hair on fire," Puck said shrewdly. "And it wasn't through any magical means, either. You just bent too close to the candle."

"Your magic is no better," Arthur muttered. "All you can do is fly around. I've never actually seen you do anything special."

"Oh yeah? I'll show you!" Puck snapped, his tiny fists balling in fury. "Just name it and I'll get it done in a flash!"

Arthur suppressed a smirk. It felt good to finally trick the mischievous fairy. "Go and bring back Alfred from the dead, won't you?" he mouthed. Puck scowled and flew off, disappearing in thin air.

Arthur let out a sigh of relief now that he shed himself of his annoying fairy friend with an impossible task. That should distract him for a good week at the most. Arthur cast a sidelong glance at Gilbert, who was sitting next to him. Gilbert was curled up in his seat, hugging his knees to his chest. Arthur would have thought Gilbert was sleeping if he didn't see the glint of red eyes in the dark. Arthur let out a yawn and tried to muffle it in fear of seeming extremely disrespectful.

"Just let it out," Gilbert muttered as the speaker took a swig of water from his water bottle. "Nobody gives a damn."

Arthur discreetly let out a long yawn behind his hand. "I'm sorry. I can't really grasp what this man is saying. What is he saying?"

"Do you really think I'd know?" Gilbert grumbled. "I'm the one that has been imagining battle scenes in my head for the past thirty minutes. He could be talking about unicorns for all I know."

Arthur snorted. "Considering that this man is probably specially trained for situations like this, don't you think that it might be useful to find out what he's saying?"

"Look around, Artie," Gilbert said sardonically. "You show me one person who's ardently taking notes and hanging on that counselor's every word and I will willingly eat your disgusting cooking."

Arthur scowled and gazed around the dim auditorium. Many of the students looked either extremely dejected or bored at the situation going on. Francis and Antonio seemed to be whispering to each other. Feliciano looked as if he was witnessing a horror movie while Lovino kept his head bowed and his face hidden. True to Gilbert's word, no one looked the least bit helped.

"But memories will thrive in this world so long as everyone remembers!" the speaker said bombastically, moving his hands in a superfluous manner. "The good memories have not gone away—there is nothing wrong with remembering them!"

"Fuck that."

Lovino's voice carried over the entire auditorium, shocking everyone into still silence. Even the speaker froze in the middle of his speech, glancing at Lovino curiously. Everyone averted their nervous gaze and attention to Lovino.

"I beg your pardon?" the speaker said.

"What does it matter?" Lovino said monotonously. He still kept his head low, and Arthur could see that his clasped hands were shaking. "I don't even want to remember him."

Arthur pursed his lips nervously. Lovino was never fond of Alfred's memory, but announcing it to the whole student body at a time like this?

"How can you say that?" a student (Roderich was his name, wasn't it?) cried out. "How dare you say that?"

"Why can't I?" Lovino's voice was strained, threatening to crack. "We all have our opinions, don't we? I can share mine as much as the next person who worships Jones's memory can!"

"Students," a teacher who supervised the seminar spoke up sharply. "Be quiet. Our guest hasn't finished his speech yet—"

"Good," This time Lovino did not lash out, but Ivan Braginski instead. "His fancy speech doesn't help fix our situation one bit, does it? It can't change anything—it just makes us realize even more what we've lost."

"Ivan Braginski, you shall see me in my office immediately after this!" the teacher snapped. "You are disrespecting our guest and our efforts to respect Mr. Jones—"

"Respect!" Lovino spat. "Yes, because someone who decides to ditch the rest of us surely earns my undying respect!"

"What is this, Vargas?" Gilbert hurled at Lovino. "Back before, you used to praise Alfred for defying Braginski and the teachers. Now you're treating him like he was your worst enemy? Tell me—where did your respect go then?"

The auditorium had erupted into indignant chaos. The teachers now had absolutely no control as the students rose from their seats and protested, their voices clashing against each other.

"If it was all a lie—" Lovino began.

"It wasn't," Gilbert said harshly. "You're so intent on hating him, you refuse to even remember who he really was—"

Lovino seemed to jerk back from the retort. His auburn hair bristled with anger.

"Did anyone actually know who he really was?" Lovino growled. "Look—if—if anyone actually knew who he really was, don't you think that one of us would know he was trying to kill himself and maybe stop it?" His voice rose and quavered, resonating in the shocked auditorium. "But I guess since he's already gone and dead—since he's already kicked the bucket—nobody actually knew who he was, did they? HE WOULDN'T LET ANYONE KNOW!"

Lovino's words were like daggers stabbing in everyone's back. Matthew looked as if he had already died in his chair; his face was pale and gaunt. Toris was fidgeting in his seat, his light eyes darting nervously all around him. Gilbert half looked like he wanted to throttle Lovino, half disappear into the ground.

"Lovino Vargas—!" a teacher said warningly, but she was promptly ignored.

"H-he didn't tell anybody, did he?" Lovino said breathily. His previous gutsy anger was slowly dissipating, and he almost looked scared.

"He was our friend, Fratello," Feliciano cried out. Tears were running down his face and he was tugging on Lovino's arm, trying to get him to sit down and be quiet. "Please don't yell about him like that—"

"No!" The anger flared again and Lovino's voice was loud and sharp once more. "If he was our friend—if he was _someone's_ friend, he would have told the truth to at least somebody! He wouldn't leave us and just do some disappearing act and be—be s-so selfish to leave us all here!" His voice began to break and his eyes shone in the dim light, but he refused to show any sign of weakness.

"Maybe…if he told someone," stuttered Lovino. No one dared to interrupt. What was there to say? "We could have helped him. But he didn't want help. This was HIS CHOICE! If he wanted help—if he had cared about himself—he would have told someone the truth!"

In a flash, he was gone. Lovino ran out of the auditorium, leaving the auditorium absolutely, unnervingly silent. Feliciano hiccupped, choking on his own tears before pushing himself out of his seat and running after him. The door slammed behind him with an echoing thud. No one spoke or move.

No one could even hear their beating hearts in their chest. It was as if each one of them died a little that very moment.

* * *

Lovino could recognize that sobbing from anywhere. Right when he heard if as the auditorium doors opened once more, he immediately knew who they belonged to. He groaned exasperatedly and quickened his pace. He didn't want to deal with his twin brother.

But Feliciano was a fast runner even if he didn't look it. Before Lovino knew it, Feliciano had caught up with Lovino, clutching the back of his shirt and pressing his face against his back.

"Stop it," Lovino croaked, trying to wriggle away. "Don't cry. Stop that." His voice was so strained that he thought it would snap in the middle of his throat and slit his neck.

Feliciano seemed to sob even harder. Lovino finally spun around and grabbed Feliciano's hands roughly. Feliciano's head was bowed, his tears dribbling down his chin and onto his polo.

"Dammit, why are you crying?" Lovino demanded. "Just stop it, okay?"

Feliciano shook his head vigorously, but his throat was too caught up to speak. Lovino quieted and let out a stiff sigh. He rubbed his forehead tiredly.

"Look—just—stop it. Calm down. I wasn't yelling at you, okay? I was yelling at all those other bastards like Beilschmidt and Lorinaitis and J—Jones." It was hard to even think about Matthew Williams Jones without remembering Alfred. "I'm not mad at you. So just shut up and be happy."

"I'm not crying because of _that_!" wailed Feliciano. Lovino drew back in surprise. Feliciano took his hands out of Lovino's and wiped his face, sniffing loudly. "Even if you were mad at me, I'm used to it! It's not because of that!"

"Then…then _what_ are you crying for?" Lovino demanded, irked. Why did his younger brother have to be such a crybaby? Feliciano only cried harder.

"I'm—I'm—" Feliciano coughed out, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. "I'm crying for _you_!"

Lovino gawked at Feliciano. Did he hear his brother correctly? "For—for me? What the hell are you doing that for?"

Feliciano swallowed hard, hiccupping. "I'm not stupid, Fratello!" he blurted out. "You may call me an idiot, but I'm not stupid!" He seemed to spit out the word 'stupid,' as if it had left a bitter taste in his mouth for too long. "I—I can understand some things about you, even if you say I can't." He paused, taking a quavering breath. Lovino didn't interrupt for once. He actually stayed silent and listened to Feliciano.

"You won't let yourself cry, will you?" Feliciano whispered. Lovino felt as if an icicle was shoved into his heart. "No matter how much you want—"

"I'm not going to cry for _him_!" Lovino shot back. "He's not worth it." Lovino swallowed hard and nodded sharply, trying to convince himself. "H-he's not worth it. I'm glad he's gone!" Feliciano flinched at Lovino's words. "I'm glad he's gone, all right? Because apparently he was…he was never my friend!"

"Lovino, _you're _the one being stupid!" Lovino jerked back at Feliciano's words. His younger brother was no longer crying, but his eyes were still wide and wet. "You're trying to hide from yourself!"

"God, what are you, my conscience?" Lovino hurled at Feliciano. Lovino was breathing hard now. He wondered if anyone could hear him shout. The school wasn't completely empty, after all. Feliciano could only stare at Lovino. "Just leave me alone, won't you? You don't understand anything about me!"

"I understand some things!" Feliciano protested. "I know that you really don't hate Alfred—"

"Shut up!" Lovino was frightened now. He didn't want Feliciano to talk anymore. He just wanted to run away, far from anyone's reach, so he wouldn't have to see or hear anyone. "Just shut up!"

"And ever since he died, you wouldn't let yourself cry, even though I can tell that you want to!" Feliciano wailed.

"Feliciano, get away from me," Lovino growled. "Just leave me alone!"

"You aren't just upset with Alfred, are you?" Feliciano insisted.

"Damn _straight _I'm not—"

"You're angry with yourself!"

Lovino felt his blood run cold. He stared at his twin brother but didn't make a sound.

No.

No, of course he wasn't. Why would he be upset with himself?

"You're an idiot, Feliciano," Lovino said, his voice sounding like a stranger's. He couldn't even recognize it. "Why—_why_ do you say that? Do you think I'll just get all better and happy just because you've offered your two cents? Now that you think you're acting all wise and shit, everything will get better?"

Feliciano was trembling, and he pressed his fingers to his lips. Lovino felt no guilt nor did he feel any anger or vindictive pleasure. He felt almost afraid.

"Are you saying—are you saying it's my fault?" The fear was pulsing in him, swelling, overtaking him. Phobos claimed him as his own. He didn't want his own brother to confirm the very fears he kept locked in his heart. "You think I'm the one to blame, don't you? Why Alfred is dead? Is that why you say I'm angry with myself?"

"No!" Feliciano cried. "No, Fratello, I didn't mean that at all!"

Lovino wished he could believe that.

That it wasn't his fault.

That it was all Alfred's. Not his. Please, don't let it be his.

_Never my friend._

_Can't be my friend._

_Because I would never let my friend just kill himself. _

_It can't be me…_

_It can't be my fault…_

But no matter how much he tried to shove the blame away, no matter how much he tried to not feel guilty, he knew that it was all a lie. He knew he was wrong, but he didn't want to bring himself to see it. It was too much for him.

"But it is my fault." Lovino's voice was so thick that it got stuck in his throat and he had to cough it out or choke. "Because I wasn't…a friend to him."

The words came out of his mouth and it took him a while to even understand what he had just said. He winced because it was out. There it was. He had said it.

"If I was, I would have known, wouldn't I?" Lovino muttered, shuddering. Now he was the one with his head bowed and his hands shaking while Feliciano stood before him, watching him. "I would've known—or noticed—and I would have done something!" He paused, letting his own voice echo in his head. "But I didn't."

Alfred had never showed a sign of depression in front of the class. Lovino had never seen him sad. Alfred was always that grinning, proud hotshot that had life going for him.

Smiles are the biggest lies.

Why did his eyes feel like they were burning when they were wet? Shouldn't water be cool and soothing? Lovino gulped, widening his eyes in hopes to dry out the tears. He wasn't the crybaby. He was the stronger, older, more mature twin. He was the older brother. He needed to be the strong brother.

But the truth hurt so, so much.

Alfred was not secretive. He was practically a human mood ring. Surely Lovino could have noticed if Alfred was not himself, if he was depressed or upset or sad. Why didn't Lovino see it? If he had actually paid attention to Alfred and not be trapped in his own world, would he have been able to stop Alfred before he killed himself?

How did he not care?

Feliciano wrapped his arms around Lovino. His eyes were dry but still full of sorrow. Lovino's face crumpled and he buried it in Feliciano's shoulder, clutching his brother tightly. He tried to breathe, tried to calm himself down, but it was too much for him.

Lovino did what he promised himself he would never do. He let himself cry.

* * *

"Can't you drive or something?"

Gilbert was hurrying out of the school building after school ended for the weekend. He shrugged and caught up with Toris, who was starting to walk home.

"I didn't drive this morning," Gilbert said. "Didn't feel like it."

Toris nodded. They walked for some time in silence, trying to escape the school after the incident in the auditorium. Many of the students, including Gilbert, were disciplined for disrespect for the speaker and for causing disturbance. It made Gilbert dislike the school even more.

How many more days until graduation again?

"That was a nightmare," Toris said in a low voice. Gilbert immediately knew what he meant.

"Tell me about it," Gilbert grumbled, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head. He sensed a drizzle coming their way soon.

"I'm sure the principal regrets bringing in that speaker now," Toris commented.

"He probably wants to send us to some mental ward," said Gilbert. "We probably seem like we're addled in the mind."

Toris didn't respond. He let out a weary sigh.

"Did you actually listen to the speaker?" Gilbert asked, pulling the ends of his sleeves over his gloved fingers.

"Sort of," Toris said glumly. "But it didn't help one bit. It really just made me feel worse."

"What did he say?" Gilbert asked.

"A lot," Toris said, shrugging. They stood by the intersection of two roads, waiting for the speeding cars to let them pass. "But the thing is…I don't really know about what he said, so really, it just makes me feel like the situation is even more hopeless."

"What did he say?" Gilbert repeated.

"What, you didn't listen to a single word?" Toris asked lightly.

"Why would I?" Gilbert said monotonously. The neon green picture of a walking man flashed and Toris and Gilbert hurried across the street. "I'm doing fine on my own."

Toris raised his eyebrows but did not pursue that subject. "The way he talked…it sounded like he already expects us to see Alfred again."

"You mean, he's talking like there's going to be an afterlife?" Gilbert said as they hurried down the city streets. Their voices were constantly interrupted by the honking of cars and the repetitive clicks the street-crossing meters made when it was time for pedestrians to cross.

"Sort of," Toris admitted, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Why don't you?" Gilbert asked.

"Don't I what?" asked Toris.

"You know…believe," Gilbert egged on. "If there is an afterlife, then we can see Alfred again. That this isn't the end."

Toris stayed silent for a moment. "Why are so many people afraid of death if there really was something on the other side? Maybe...maybe it's because they know that there isn't anything. After this, it's over. We're done."

"Not everyone is afraid of death," Gilbert contradicted.

_Alfred wasn't afraid of death._

"How come you believe in it, then?" inquired Toris.

"Just—just think about life," Gilbert said carefully. "We aren't as simple as a watch for a clock. For those, once the batteries are done, they're done. But they're manmade. It's through man's understanding and knowledge that they're assembled."

"What are you saying?" Toris said, furrowing his eyebrows.

Gilbert tried to search for the right things to say. "We aren't manmade, you know? We can't create _life_. Dr. Frankenstein can try all he wants to bring his monster to life, but if it's not fictional, it isn't happening."

Toris remained silent. Gilbert swallowed hard and continued on, but he could feel his heart jump worriedly in his chest.

"So—I guess what I'm trying to say is—we can't destroy what we didn't create," said Gilbert, quickening his steps. "Life is so—I mean, it's so _miraculous_. Can you really explain what that spark that keeps you and me talking and breathing like we are now is? Or the difference between a pebble and a seed is that the seed can grow into a—I don't know—a cactus or an oak or anything while the stone just…stays as a stone? It has to be something bigger—more than we can understand."

Gilbert suddenly felt a growing dread in him. All this talk and thinking about life made him feel guiltier than ever before. Alfred no longer had this life that was so rare, so pure, so strange. He felt selfish and cruel for talking about life when he was the reason that Alfred killed himself.

"Then if someone actually does die," Toris said, "where _does_ this life go? You say it's more than a beating heart or a brain, but what happens when both stop working?" It was practically evident that Alfred was on both of their minds, as was the guilt for the same thing. "You can go on a plane up past the clouds and you won't see heaven on top of the clouds. You can shoot a space rocket all the way to the moon or even farther and you won't see anything. It's just _gone_. What about then? What, is it in some other dimension? An alternate universe?"

_Where are you, Alfred?_

Gilbert hesitated, but he kept himself from raising or changing his voice. "Well, if it was somewhere where anyone could easily go to, how would that work? If you could just take back that—that person that died and bring them back to Earth—how precious would life be then if you could just go back that way?"

_Are you everywhere around us?_

"But if there _was_ an afterlife, life here would pretty much be pointless. Considering you've got an eternal one waiting for you if you just kick the bucket now," Toris pointed out. Gilbert felt himself grow very cold, as if he was thrown into winter. "How precious is life then, really?"

_Or are you nowhere?_

For so long, they wondered. They hoped. They prayed. They feared. And they would never know.

_Do you even exist anymore?_

"I mean, if someone killed another person," Toris said, his voice quivering. He kept his eyes glued to the sidewalk, almost running into other people or the lampposts, "that would be doing them a favor, right? If there was an eternity, then you'd just save them the trouble of waiting and fearing death."

"Why would you even want to kill a person?" Gilbert said incredulously. "Killing someone is plain bad! It's because you're doing it out of—of hatred or greed or intolerance. You have to agree, Toris, that no one should act upon those emotions whether there's an afterlife or not!"

"And selfishness," Toris said quietly.

Gilbert was taken aback. Toris stopped abruptly in his tracks. Gilbert had walked several paces ahead before he realized Toris wasn't with him. He spun around and hurried back toward grew very pale and he looked as if he was extremely ill.

"Toris. Kid. What's up?" Gilbert said firmly, snapping his fingers in front of Toris's face. Toris gulped and brushed Gilbert's hand away. Above their heads, the sky began to rain. The water pattered lightly on their faces.

"I didn't mean to kill Alfred, though," Toris said, more to himself than anyone else. "I never realized—but—I should have known—but I didn't—"

"Not this again," Gilbert groaned. He put a hand on Toris's shoulder and shook him ungracefully. "Listen to me, Lorinaitis. You didn't kill him. My word, I don't even know where you got that stupid idea—"

"Stop that!" Toris wrenched away from Gilbert, indignation flaming in his eyes. "It's _not _a stupid idea, all right?"

Gilbert stepped back, holding up his hands as if in surrender. He immediately regretted his actions, but it was far too late to do anything about it.

"I knew something was wrong with Alfred," Toris breathed. Onlookers cast the two teenagers curious looks by went on with their lives, completely unbothered. "I knew he was upset—depressed, even—but I didn't do anything."

"Are you kidding me?" Gilbert croaked, his strong voice suddenly failing him. "You were like his Wailing Wall! He came to you if he had a problem—"

"But I didn't do anything that helped him!" Toris cried out. His blue eyes were shining with both anger and pain. "I had no idea how to comfort or help him. All I could do was listen and listen and listen and just _know _all the time that I have no idea how to help him! And then I just _gave up!_"

The rain was starting to grow heavier. The water was seeping through Gilbert's jacket, darkening the red cloth to a sick burgundy. Toris's hair was clinging to his face. Both their hearts felt heavier as the rain strengthened.

"I gave up on him and myself!" Toris continued painfully. "I gave up on trying to help him. I just resigned to the fact that I wasn't a good enough friend and I left him alone. You know why I don't hang out with Eduard and Raivis and Feliks anymore?"

Gilbert was shuddering and it had nothing to do with the cold. The more Toris spoke, the more Gilbert understood what he meant, because there he stood as Toris poured out his pain and truth to him and Gilbert had no idea how to deal with it. He used to always pride himself for knowing what to do, how to deal with a situation, what advice to give, but now he was empty-handed. He was helpless.

"It's because I left Alfred for them!" Toris exclaimed. "I started to befriend them more to the point that I was practically only acquaintances with Alfred. And it didn't bother me anymore. I convinced myself that I was a hopeless case and that there would be someone else that would do a much better job than me in helping Alfred out—but in reality I was just never trying."

Gilbert felt as if an ironclad fist punched him in the heart. Had it been that Toris was depending on _Gilbert_ to help Alfred? If that was the case, then Gilbert had completely failed. He hadn't been able to help Alfred in the slightest. He had let everyone down.

"It isn't your fault, Toris," Gilbert said loudly. "Don't blame yourself. It isn't. Trust me." What more can he say? What could he possibly say to convince Toris?

"I've got to go this way," Toris said after a long moment of silence. He jerked his head toward down the opposite street from Gilbert's home. "I've got to go." His voice was hollow and expressionless. He gave a simple wave goodbye before turning on his heel.

"Wait, Toris," Gilbert called out desperately before Toris was out of earshot. Toris turned back toward Gilbert. Gilbert felt his growing nervousness in his limbs. He struggled with his words, which was so odd because Gilbert was almost always certain with what he was saying. "Don't think—it isn't—" He took in a deep breath. "It wasn't your fault, Toris. Don't hurt yourself like this."

Toris gave Gilbert a very long look. Gilbert's heart was beating fast, and he just wished that Toris would answer _now _so he wouldn't be left standing out in the pouring rain, among strangers that could have eavesdropped on their conversation, just waiting. He prayed that this would be successful, that he had made the right choice.

Without saying a single word, Toris turned on his heel and left Gilbert in the rain.


	11. Chapter 11

**Happy Thanksgiving, from America to you all~**

**Just a warning, we are gradually approaching the point of the story where I have not yet finished writing, so after that point updates may or may not continue to be weekly. **

**Also, I've been posting some short stories and et cetera on my tumblr, so please check them out and tell me what you think if you have the time :'D. I'm testing a new style.**

**I nearly forgot to update today because I was watching Toy Story 3~ That movie never fails to touch me.**

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Tea Cup: Haha, that's cool. I used to have a combo of different songs contributing to the tune of that song, but I forgot it by now :'D. Hmm hmm, questions you ask are good questions...tune in for the answers, aye? XD Ooh, when you were talking about devouring the trees and the sun, I immediately thought of _The Things They Carried_ and Mary Anne Bell...D'aww, cute Gilbo kitty! I wish I could see him XD. Thank you for reading!**

**Anonymous: Wahh, thanks so much! I'm really glad you like the story! Mm, Lovino and Feliciano's scene was definitely intense to write, whereas Gilbert and Toris's scene required me to think a lot :D. Thank you for reading!**

**Another Person: Uwauu, I'm glad to hear that my story reached out to your emotions :'D. I try my best to keep it from staying stale and dry. Ahaha, sometimes Thursdays come so fast to me that I forget that I need to update sometimes XD. Wowie, that's such a big compliment; I'm very honored. Thank you for reading!**

**Gracieface: We all have those moments :'D. Thank you for your kind words! Updates are every Thursday...for now :'D. **

* * *

**"To be, or not to be: that is the question:**

**Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer**

**The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,**

**Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,**

**And by opposing end them?"**

_Turn back._

_What the heck are you thinking?_

Arthur honestly could not answer that question.

He had driven for thirty minutes in search for his destination. He didn't tell anyone where he was going. He was certain that if he told Gilbert or Toris or anyone else, they would think him mental.

After all, he really didn't have a reason to go there.

He parked his car on the side of the road. This side of town was rather empty, occupied only by a tiny Catholic church and an old-fashioned bookstore that was open once in a blue moon. No one would see Arthur. They wouldn't suspect anything.

He hesitated before grudgingly grabbing the bright bouquet of daffodils from the passenger's seat. Was it really necessary that he had to bring them? He doubted it, but it was a sign of respect, even though no one would ever witness it. By the time anyone would ever find it, the flowers would have probably rotted away and be devoured by microscopic decomposers.

Nevertheless, he carried the sunny yellow flowers in his arms as he kicked closed the car door and made his way through the cleanly cut grass. It was a quiet Saturday evening; the sky was a hazy mixture of different hues of blue and orange. The streets were quieter as neighborhood children were ushered back onto their front porches and off the streets while teenagers avoided the tranquil, uninteresting side of town that only Arthur would visit.

_Why are you doing this?_

Arthur urged his own mind to be quiet. He knew that he didn't know the answer to that question. Why did he care about one lonely grave in this vast cemetery? But he was here anyway, armed with a bundle of yellow petals, trudging through a maze of graves.

Suppose Alfred wasn't even buried in this cemetery. Suppose he was cremated instead, his ashes billowing who knew where across this wide world. But Arthur had a knack—and he was usually right—that this was where he was supposed to be.

Arthur might have been searching for a good fifteen minutes. The sky was darkening and it was getting harder to read the names on the gravestones. There were so many different kinds of gravestones, ranging from simple headstones to elaborate monuments. Arthur wondered if the dead could even tell what sort of grave they were given, if they cared at all in the first place.

It wasn't until the light in the sky teetered on the line between dusk and twilight did Arthur finally found what he was looking for. It was a tall headstone, neither plain nor ornate. The words were carved deeply into the gray stone, still cleanly cut for it was not that old compared to the many other weathered and polished graves around it.

So…this was it, wasn't it?

Arthur took in a deep breath. Now that he was standing in front of the grave, he was at a loss of words or thoughts. What was he to do now? Toss the flowers on top of the grassy mound and drive back home again? No; that wasn't what he came for.

"Um…" Arthur said weakly. He scratched the back of his head. "Hi…Alfred. You don't know me, but I know you. Well—I don't exactly know you, but I know of you…if that counts."

This was idiotic. This was absurd. Who was there to listen to him? Alfred was dead for a reason; there was no way that his ears were still functioning. Why in the world did Arthur drive thirty minutes just to talk to dust?

"I'll be frank," Arthur said lamely. "I didn't come to shower you with praises or sorrows or tears or anything. I mean—I'm sad that you're dead and all, and I'd rather you weren't, but I'm not—you know—_heartbroken._ But don't take offense; I'm sure if I actually knew you I'd feel—differently."

He thought of his fellow classmates in that auditorium exactly twenty-six hours ago. There was no doubt that he would have reacted differently if he actually knew Alfred.

"So—I guess what I'm here for is—" Arthur refused to look at the gravestone or the grass. He paused for a moment and chuckled in spite of himself. "God…even if I ask you any questions, it isn't like you can answer me anyway. So what's the point?"

He let out a sigh and rubbed his forehead wearily. "I mean, come on. Look at me. Here I am, alone in the middle of a nameless graveyard, talking to myself as if someone else can hear me." He shook his head. What was he expecting? Some sort of ghost to pop out from behind the headstone?

Arthur wasn't sure how long he stood there. He thought that at some point during his visit he would feel sorry for Alfred's death and be rid of that burning pit of indignation in his chest. That wasn't the case; he felt no pity, no melancholy, no mourning. The cruel and honest resentment still resided in him.

Did that make him a bad person?

Arthur stared down at the daffodils in his hands. He was not sure why he had chose the cheery yellow puff balls of a plant to present to Alfred's grave. The moment he spotted them in the florist's shop, he had immediately resolved to purchase them for this purpose. Now that he thought of it, he wished he never bought them. In fact, he wished he didn't waste his time coming here. He felt no better, no comfort, no _cleaner_ from his previous emotions.

Was it wrong to be angry at a dead person?

It wasn't like they could defend themselves anymore.

"Why'd you do it, anyway?" Arthur mumbled. There was no point in asking, but Arthur felt the urge to in spite of himself. He was never going to know the answer, and he wasn't sure if anyone in this entire world would ever discover it. It would become the eighth wonder of his world, but one that Arthur would rather wish he had never discovered.

Arthur felt no guilt in speaking so cruelly and bluntly. Wherever Alfred was, whether he was a spirit or in heaven or just plain gone, Arthur doubted that Alfred would take the time to actually listen to a strange teenager whom he had never met.

"You read some of that book we were studying in Literature class, haven't you?" Arthur said. He sat himself down on the grass. He knew that it was a better sign of respect if he continued standing, but what did a couple of bones and a pile of dust care about respect? "I don't know how far you went, but in the story…Conrad, the main character, he tried to kill himself. He didn't succeed, of course, but how the fact that he tried to kill himself affected everyone else…it was horrible."

Arthur wasn't exactly sure where he was going with this. What did a dead person care about a fictional character? In fact, why did Arthur have to come all the way across town to a cemetery when he knew that even if he did speak to Alfred's grave, Alfred would never hear or respond to him? Surely Alfred's spirit wasn't _chained _to the grave and whoever wanted to talk to him could only do it in front of a granite headstone.

"You know, when I think about that book, I immediately think of you now," Arthur admitted. "And I know I'm not the only one. Lovino Vargas—remember him? He _hates_ that book now. He's pretty much an emotional wreck. And your brother? Matthew? You remember him too, right?"

Could a dead person, soul or not, remember their life on Earth?

"Toris says he hasn't gotten over you. He tried to change who he was because of you." Arthur's voice was growing more accusatory. "And—and speaking of Toris—Gilbert told me he's going through a guilt fest. He thinks it's his fault you're dead."

The thoughts of all his classmates, everyone who was suffering, were pouring into Arthur's mind and right out of his mouth. All the division between the students, all the anger and indignation and pain they were suffering, was stemming from Alfred, wasn't it? Couldn't he even see what he had caused, or did his suicide provide an easy escape and leave the ruins for everyone else to pick up?

"Ivan blames himself too. Your death practically stresses Ludwig out. And Gilbert?" Arthur's voice was rising, but he didn't care. No one was there to stop him or scold him like they did to Lovino. He had every freedom to be angry. "Ever since you died, he can't control himself anymore. Sometimes I'm afraid that the next day of school I won't see him in class anymore and find out that he killed himself the night before.

"I hate it," Arthur blurted out. He knew he should feel ashamed. Who was he to pile all the blame on a defenseless dead person? "I hate seeing how sad everyone is. I hate knowing that this wasn't an accident, but you killed yourself on purpose." The stems of the daffodils in his fists were threatening to snap; he was squeezing them too tightly. "But it doesn't matter, does it?"

He paused, the words ringing in his own ears. It didn't matter how much he blamed Alfred or how much he resented the boy. It wouldn't change a thing. It wouldn't make any of his classmates feel better or heal. It wouldn't stop Gilbert from hurting himself or Lovino from burning with anger. His hate would be pointless.

"I would have liked to meet you, you know," Arthur said calmly. "From what I saw and heard from other gents, you seemed like an interesting character. But you never really gave me a chance, did you?" He fingered the delicate, downy petals of the daffodils.

"I wish you hadn't committed suicide," Arthur murmured, bowing his head. "Not just because of everyone's suffering, but that is one hell of a reason. But also because—well—you should have had a second chance." He looked up to the headstone. "Why didn't you see what life really was? I don't know why you killed yourself…no one does." His voice faltered. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to point out to Alfred.

But what was the point when Alfred was already dead?

It would be like rubbing salt in his spirit's wounds.

"Just—forget it," Arthur stuttered. He tossed the daffodils onto the grave, not caring that they landed in a clumsy, scattered manner. "It doesn't matter anymore, does it?"

He rose to his feet, dusted the grass and dirt from his knees, and walked away from the grave.

**"To die: to sleep;**

**No more; and by a sleep to say we end**

**The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks**

**That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation**

**Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;**

**To sleep: perchance to dream..." **


	12. Chapter 12

**…You guys are going to hate me for this.**

**The next chapter's update date will no longer be subjected to my regular Thursday schedule.**

**I'm having a bit of trouble organizing all my thoughts for this story right now and will need extra time to write it. Therefore, the next chapter will probably not be updated next Thursday…in fact, I'd be lucky if it was updated the Thursday after that O_o.**

**I'm really sorry for the inconvenience, especially considering how this chapter ends…please have faith in me! I will update! Thank you for your patience~**

**Anonymous Review Reply:**

**Menet: Haha, I'm very bad at writing good romance unless the other genres include angst, hurt/comfort, or drama. I'm not exactly a fluffy person, ahaha~ Thank you for reading!**

**Tea Cup: No worries, take as much time as you need :D. I understand what you mean…when I was reading that section about Mary Ann Bell, I was thinking, "…I know what she is talking about…" _Catcher in the Rye _strikes me to the core; I hope you enjoy it. Ahh, I'm sorry about your aunt, and I hope you've found peace ^_^. Thank you for reading!**

**The Krayon: Obsessing over Izaya Orihara is very fun, thank you very much. It has instigated a deeper desire to learn Japanese ;;;;;. Haha, I wish we didn't have such drastically different time zones so that talking to each other would be a bit smoother. Thank you for reading!**

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** "…and after a while, I asked her what it was like to be dead…For a few seconds she was quiet.**

**'Well, right now,' she said, 'I'm _not_ dead. But when I am, it's like…I don't know, I guess it's like being inside a book that nobody's reading.'**

**'A book?' I said.**

**'An old one. It's up on a library shelf, so you're safe and everything, but the book hasn't been checked out for a long, long time. All you can do is wait. Just hope somebody'll pick it up and start reading.'" **

**-Tim O'Brien _The Things They Carried_ **

Arthur couldn't sleep.

He lied in bed for a good hour and a half, trying to shut his mind off and succumb to slumber, but Hypnos toyed with him and eluded him for far too long.

He sat up, disgruntled. The clock read twelve forty-three in the morning. He groaned and leaned his back against the wall. It had been six days since he had visited Alfred's grave. In all honesty, he couldn't take his mind off of it. It wasn't because of any lingering affection or connection to the grave; he just couldn't help regretting that he had gone in the first place.

Arthur reluctantly turned on the table lamp on the nightstand. The room was immediately brightened by the orange light. He pressed the palm of his hands against his eyes as if trying to squeeze the tiredness out of them. He kicked off the covers and slowly trudged out of the bedroom, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where he brewed himself a cup of chamomile tea. After his navy blue mug was filled practically to the brim with piping hot tea, he dragged himself back upstairs, but not before sneaking a bite of midnight snack: a blueberry scone with clotted cream.

He climbed up the stairs and hurried down the hallway to his bedroom. He heard a little jingling above his head and looked up.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," Peaseblossom said warily.

Arthur groaned and closed his eyes. "And why's that?"

"Puck just came in," Peaseblossom said.

"Delightful. Now I'm kicked out of my own bedroom," Arthur grumbled, sipping some tea to try to soothe his mood. "Can't you help me kick him out? Or bring Titania over to knock some sense and discipline in him?"

Peaseblossom shook her head. "No can do. Titania wouldn't want to come at this time and Puck seemed rather rushed and serious about something."

"Wait—what?" Arthur said, raising his eyebrows. "Why?"

"Well, she and Oberon got in another fight—"

"Not Titania. I'm asking about Puck!" Arthur, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure his parents and Peter were still sleeping in their rooms. Even his family had not yet gotten used to his fairy friends. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know what's wrong," Peaseblossom admitted. "But he was rushing into your room not too long ago and was carrying quite a lot of magic with him, so…"

"This has to be some practical joke," Arthur grumbled. "I am not awake enough to be up for any of this." He sighed exasperatedly and gulped down more tea. He was not in the mood to resort to sleeping on the living room couch or be bullied around by a miniscule fairy. "Whatever. I'm going in anyway."

"You really are?" Peaseblossom said, surprised. "Don't you know how shrewd and troublesome fairy he is?"

"I know all too well, but I'm not surrendering my own bedroom for his fancies," Arthur grumbled. He turned the doorknob and pushed it open.

"WHAT THE—?" Before he could finish the rest of the sentence, Puck flew down from the ceiling and covered Arthur's mouth. Arthur squirmed and flailed before taking his half-full mug of tea and chucking it at the stranger in the middle of the room.

"Arthur! Arthur!" Puck hissed, wincing when the tea splattered on the carpet and the mug landed with a thud on the edge of the mattress.

"How did—? Why is he—?" Arthur stammered, pointing at the figure sitting casually on his desk. The unknown boy waved a hand excitedly. Arthur stared dumbfounded.

"Arthur, he isn't real!" Puck exclaimed.

"He shouldn't be!" Arthur said, aghast, struggling to keep his voice low so that he wouldn't wake anyone up. "He's supposed to be d—"

"Shh!" Puck leaned in closer and whispered into Arthur's ear while the strange phenomenon blinked curiously at the two of them. "You can't tell him he's dead. He doesn't know that."

"Who would know better than him?" Arthur hissed.

"Because I told you!" Puck said with irritation. "That _isn't him_!"

Arthur stared at the boy who now seemed to be folding paper airplanes with his homework. He was the spitting image of the blond boy Arthur had seen in Gilbert's photos, but it couldn't be—it was impossible—

"Who are you?" Arthur called out. The boy looked up, surprised to be acknowledged, before offering a grin.

"Who else?" he said. "I'm Alfred! Pleased t' meet ya!"

Arthur turned sharply toward Puck, silently demanding an explanation. Puck recoiled, looking rather indignant.

"You told me to bring Alfred back from the dead," he mumbled.

"What? But—you just said—" Arthur sputtered, disbelief swelling in him.

"But I didn't," Puck continued flatly. "That's not him. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Then who—or should I say _what_—is he?" Arthur demanded.

"He's just a memory," Puck whispered. Alfred seemed to have forgotten about them now and continued to fly Arthur's homework across the room. "That's—that's the only way he really exists in this world now. Through memories."

"And—you just—"

"When you told me to bring you Alfred, I went to collect other people's memories of him," Puck explained impatiently, "and I brought you this." He jerked his head toward Alfred's direction.

"How the hell did you manage that?" Arthur exclaimed.

"I told you my magic is more prominent than yours," sniffed Puck loftily.

"Then how come he doesn't know he's dead?" Arthur muttered, keeping a watchful eye on Alfred as he jumped on Arthur's bed.

"Because no one's memory of Alfred would be of him talking and knowing that he's dead when they remember what he did when he was alive," Puck said sharply.

Arthur wasn't entirely sure if he understood, but held his tongue. "So…this isn't actually Alfred."

Puck rolled his eyes. "Not in the slightest."

"But it's an echo, perhaps?"

"More or less."

"…would it be tactless if I compared it to _Harry Potter_?" Arthur said in spite of himself.

"Why aren't you taking this more seriously?" Puck demanded. For the first time in Arthur's memory, Puck, the troublesome prankster of a fairy, was scolding Arthur of being childish!

"It's about one in the morning, Puck. For all I know, this could be a dream," Arthur said tiredly, praying that that was the case.

"Then I'll let you learn yourself," Puck said harshly before disappearing in thin air. Arthur let out a sigh and trudged to his bed. There was no possible way that Alfred—or at least a mirage of him—was in his room, vandalizing his possessions, leaving muddy footprints on his carpet—

"So what's your name?" Alfred piped up.

Arthur flumped onto his bed, yawning. Alfred pouted and jabbed Arthur's cheek.

"Hey. Hey. I asked you a question."

Arthur pushed himself into a sitting position, glaring reproachfully at Alfred with sleep-deprived eyes. "Arthur Kirkland. Pleased to make your acquaintance." He held out a hand for Alfred to shake, expecting to feel nothing when Alfred took it. Instead, when Alfred shook his hand a little too enthusiastically, he was completely solid, if not strangely so. The only comparison Arthur could make was that it was like holding pumice rock; though it was not the same texture as pumice, it had the same, delicate, hollow feeling that was easily breakable.

"Mind if I call you 'Iggy?'" Alfred said breezily.

"W-what? Iggy?" Arthur repeated, confused. "Where in the world did you get that name?"

"It sounds cool, doesn't it?" Alfred said. He sat cross-legged on Arthur's bed, and Arthur had to suppress wincing when Arthur's muddy trainers stepped on his blankets. If he was just a memory, did the mess he made only remain imaginary?

"Not in the slightest," Arthur said coldly. Perhaps this was not the Alfred who committed suicide (_yet_) but it was still the same one that led up to that decision, right?

"Whoa." To Arthur's horror, Alfred was now tugging at his eyebrows. "What are you, a werewolf? How'd you grow these?"

"Stop that, you wanker!" Arthur snapped, kneeing Alfred in the stomach. Alfred laughed; he probably couldn't feel any pain as a memory.

"Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed," Alfred said cheerily.

"That would have been the case if I went to bed in the first place!" Arthur hissed. This surely had to be one of Puck's many practical jokes. Why would anyone act like this to a complete stranger?

"So what did you bring me here for?" Alfred asked curiously. "Do you have any horror movies we can watch? Or-or-or…video games!"

"I didn't bring you here. My idiotic fai—friend did," Arthur said quickly. "And now I'm deeply regretting that he did!"

"What? Why?" Alfred said incredulously.

"Because you are a twit!" growled Arthur.

Alfred sulked, his round blue eyes promptly gleaming with tears. Arthur was completely unfazed; he pulled the covers over his head.

"Wait—hey!" Alfred cried out, shaking Arthur's shoulder. Arthur was more than ready to chuck Alfred out the window, even if it wouldn't hurt him. "Don't ignore me like that!"

"You're only a dream," Arthur grumbled, screwing his eyes shut.

"Don't be like that, Iggy!" Alfred moaned. Arthur gritted his teeth; the boy was now sitting on top of his left leg. "You aren't being a very good host!"

Arthur felt that even though this was his house, he was more of the captive than Alfred was.

"Go away," Arthur said monotonously, his face pressed against his own pillow. "I want to get some sleep."

"I thought you said I was a dream," Alfred teased.

"You're a nightmare," Arthur grunted. He extended a hand from the protection of his covers and pointed to the door. "Leave."

"But…then I'll be lonely," Alfred said falteringly. Arthur exasperatedly let his hand fall back to the mattress. "No one but you talk to me."

"Yeah, you know why?" Arthur said sardonically, his impatience getting the better of him. "Because you aren't even _alive _, for goodness' sake."

He suddenly remembered Puck's warning not to tell this Alfred that he was dead. He tentatively poked his head from the sheets, expecting Alfred to be frozen with shock and confusion. Instead, to Arthur's surprise, Alfred looked completely calm, if not sage.

"But even so…I figured—you know—since you're the only one that can see me, you can talk to me," Alfred said, shrugging.

"Wait—" Arthur sat up quickly. "You already know that…you aren't alive? But what about what Puck said, about you not—?"

"He's got some things right about me," Alfred admitted. He tapped a finger to his ear. "I heard a lot more than that fairy and you gave me credit for."

He hopped out of bed and trod through the wet carpet, still spongy from Arthur's tea. Arthur watched him carefully, recognizing that Alfred was not completely air-headed as he first thought.

"So," Arthur said loudly, sitting up straighter. "Why don't—why don't you tell me what you are, exactly? I can't say—I don't really understand."

Alfred flashed Arthur a smile. "Ha ha, _now _you appreciate what good help I am, huh?"

"Yes, you're delightfully fascinating. Now go on," Arthur said dryly.

"Well, I don't really know how to explain it either," Alfred said, shrugging. "Just ask me questions. Maybe I can answer them."

It was entirely too early for Arthur to be thrown into a situation like this. Here he was, having a somewhat casual conversation with a person who had been dead for about a month in the middle of the night. He tried pinching himself discreetly, but sure enough he felt the ache on his side.

"Well, it certainly isn't a dream," Arthur muttered to himself.

"'Course not," Alfred said brightly. He cocked his head, scrutinizing Arthur. "But you think this is impossible, don't you?"

"Heavens, no," Arthur said a little too heartily. "I'm the one with the fairy friends wreaking havoc on my life. In fact, I believe as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

"Isn't that from some Tim Burton movie?" Alfred asked.

"It was originally from an English writer nearly a century and a half before that American director," Arthur said coldly, preferring to side with Lewis Carroll's version rather than Hollywood. He pushed that thought aside. "So…are you sure that you aren't—you know—Alfred?"

"What kind of question is that?" Alfred said confusedly.

"You _aren't_ Alfred, are you? Not his ghost lingering in the Earth or anything?" Arthur asked.

"No," Alfred said calmly. "I'm not the real Alfred. I mean, I'll remember everything about him, and act and look like him. I'm just not…him."

"For a collection of scattered memories, you're pretty prudent," Arthur commented. "But are you even the real Alfred's memories?"

"What?" Alfred said, raising his eyebrows. Arthur was beginning to wonder if they could go anywhere if they kept running into misunderstandings like this.

"All of Alfred's thoughts and opinions and secrets he kept to himself would have died with him, wouldn't they?" Arthur pointed out. "If he never let them out…then you can't be made of _those_ secrets, right? So you're—you're just made up of other people's memories. I don't really want you to be declaring how much of a great friend and such if those are the only memories you're composed of."

"Do they say that about me?" Alfred asked.

"No," Arthur said shortly. "I'm just saying."

Alfred gave a weak chuckle and shrugged. "Depends where your fairy friend got me from, right? But that's likely…"

Arthur wasn't very sure what to take of the situation. "So then…you aren't him."

"You're kinda slow, aren't you?" Alfred said bluntly.

"Well, forgive me for trying to clarify things," Arthur said loftily. "It's not every day something like this happens." He slid off his bed, his previous drowsiness forgotten. "So, then I guess dead people's spirits don't watch over us or be with us, huh?"

"What? I never said that," Alfred said, waving his arms about. "I told you, I don't know! I wouldn't know, would I? I'm not dead. Well, I am, but technically—" He pointed a finger to his chest. "—this guy right here hasn't ever died. I _can't_ ever die, really. I don't know if I would even be considered alive."

"My word, why are you making this more confusing than it needs to be?" Arthur groaned. He bit his lip. "May I ask…how did you die?"

"Uh…" Alfred mumbled, rubbing the back of his head. "It wasn't pretty."

"I don't really know how suicide could be pretty in the first place," Arthur said coldly.

Alfred frowned. "What, are you going to hold that against me?"

"Of course I am!" Arthur blurted out.

"I'm not even the real Alfred!" Alfred protested.

"What difference does it make?" Arthur growled.

"The difference? The real Alfred won't know what you think of him! That's who you're resenting, right?" Alfred argued. "So it doesn't matter how much you yell at me, because _I_ can't really regret or anything, can I?"

"Hell, I don't know!" Arthur snapped.

"You sure don't," Alfred said mulishly. "You don't know why I did it, but you still criticize me like I'm—"

"I thought you said you were blameless in this whole situation," Arthur said sourly.

"I never said that! You're just twisting my words!" Alfred said hotly. "You don't actually know who I am, so how can you possibly hate me for something you don't even understand?"

"I don't hate you for your reasons, and I never said I hated you!" Arthur retorted. "I just hate what you've done and how everyone else has to deal with it!"

"What are you talking about?" Alfred asked warily.

"You didn't seriously think that everything here was daisies and sunflowers when you left, did you?" Arthur accused.

"_I_ technically never left," Arthur mumbled.

"Well, then, did _you_ at least notice how Matthew is _afraid _of being your twin now, how Gilbert keeps mutilating himself, how your classmates can't even stand a professional's help to heal, and how Lovino practically _hates _you?" Arthur said intensely.

"Lovino Vargas?" Alfred confirmed tentatively. "He hates me?"

"Yes," Arthur said cruelly. Alfred recoiled from the painful truth.

"But…why?" Arthur murmured.

"You're probably made up of his memories too, aren't you?" Arthur said sharply. "Surely he thought of you and his reasons some time…"

"A-and Mattie?" Alfred said carefully. "What about him?"

"What do you expect?" Arthur muttered.

"And Gil…he's hurting himself?" Alfred said painfully.

"I didn't say it just to scare you," Arthur said.

Alfred chewed on the inside of his lip. More and more questions kept popping in Arthur's head, but he wasn't sure how to voice them all at once, much less in one night.

"Do you think…the real Alfred knows?" Arthur asked tentatively.

"I don't know, do I?" Alfred said a little rashly. "I'm no closer to the supernatural than you are."

It was very hard to grasp what Alfred was. Arthur admittedly confused him with perhaps a ghost, like what he would read in books or see in movies. At the same time, he just wasn't _Alfred_, even if they were apparently mirror images of each other. Though it was only a single dissimilarity, it made all the difference.

"Can other people see you, do you think?" asked Arthur.

"Can other people see your fairy?" Alfred responded.

Arthur shook his head, a little abashed. Alfred gave a chuckle. "So, for all you know, I really can be just a figment of your imagination, right?"

"If you were, you wouldn't be so annoying," Arthur muttered.

"So why did you ask your fairy to bring me to you, anyway?" Alfred asked, changing the subject.

"He told you that?" Arthur said, raising his eyebrows.

Alfred nodded. "Said that you ordered him to bring Alfred from the dead, but this was the closest he could get. So why did you want him back? I thought you didn't know me—or him."

"I didn't. Or I don't," Arthur admitted. He shrugged his shoulders tiredly. "I don't—I doubt I'd get what I needed anyway. I mean, if you really aren't made of _Alfred's _thoughts or secrets, then I won't have my questions answered. If no one else knows it or saw it or noticed it, and he's dead, then it's like it never happened, isn't it?"

"I don't think so," Alfred said sagely. "The ultimate truth is that it _did _happen. Even if I—or Alfred—denied that it happened and everyone believed us, it's _not the truth_. It happened, and you can't just erase it from existence, can you?"

"I didn't really get much sense out of any of that," Arthur admitted, laughing weakly.

"Well, it's hard to explain to someone who only sees things through one point of view, right?" Alfred pointed out. "I'm not saying you're narrow-minded or anything," he added quickly when Arthur looked affronted. "I'm saying that—well—life is whatever it is in _your_ mind and understanding. I've come from many people's." He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "But we've gotten off topic. What did you want from me?"

"I want to know why you killed yourself," Arthur said. He felt no nervousness in asking. It wasn't like this Memory Alfred could tell anyone else who can't see him, right?

"Why do you care?" Alfred asked cautiously.

"I want to know what caused all this pain that's going on right now," Arthur said sharply. "So many people are hurting because of it. I want to know why because—because like you already know, I resent you." He stared Alfred straight in the eyes. "I'm indignant. I would hope you'd understand why. I just feel that…I want to know if it was worth it. His death. If it's worth all this."

Alfred nodded slowly. "What are you going to do, though? Tell everyone else after I've told you?"

"They all blame themselves for your suicide," Arthur said bitterly. "And it isn't like I can tell them that you visited me in the middle of the night if they won't believe me, right?"

Alfred grew very quiet. Arthur, on the other hand, felt a growing impatience.

"I thought they would know. I mean, didn't you leave a note?" Arthur said.

"No," Alfred said shortly. Arthur blinked confusedly at him, and Alfred shook his head. "I just couldn't bring myself to do it, okay?"

Arthur didn't speak. Alfred let out a sigh and edged closer to him. He sat on the side of the bed.

"I'll show you," Alfred said quietly. "Maybe if you knew the truth—then you can help them too."

Alfred put his hand over Arthur's eyes. Arthur furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"How are you doing this?" Arthur asked slowly.

"I'm going to show you," Alfred said simply.

"Wait—how?" Arthur exclaimed. Alfred's touch was somewhat unnerving. It felt unnaturally cool for a spring evening, almost like a breeze.

"How else?" Alfred said. "It isn't that hard for me. I'm only memories now, aren't I? Except I don't have a body to lock them up in. That's the only way I'm alive in this world, after all. Through memories."

Arthur hesitated before closing his eyes. Alfred let out a deep sigh.

"You probably won't forgive me after seeing this, would you?" Alfred murmured.

"You think that?" Arthur said quietly, feeling a bit of dread inside of him.

"What could I have possibly done to stop you from being angry with me?" Alfred asked, a sad smile on his lips. "Whatever I've done, I still…died, you know? And that is why you hate me."

"How many times do I have to keep telling you?" Arthur mumbled into Alfred's hand. "I don't hate you. How can I?"

Alfred gave a weak chuckle. "Just don't…please don't tell anyone. I don't want them to think—"

Arthur couldn't hear the end of that sentence. Immediately, he was sucked out of this world, the wind rushing in his ears as the color all around him suddenly spun into blackness.


	13. Chapter 13

**...**

**Yes, I am still alive.**

**Yes, this is an actual update and not an author's note saying that I'm giving up the story.**

**Yes, I had neglected this story in favor of other projects.**

**...Yes, my semester exams are coming soon, and yet I'm still writing and not studying...**

**Yes, this chapter is actually _very_ allegorical, so I apologize if anything in here may be found offensive, for it was not at all my intention. **

**Yes, this is not the entire memory. This is only part 1 of...three?**

**Yes, updates will still be unpredictable and not subject to the usual updating schedule. **

**Yes, I'm _very_ sorry for such a long stagnant period of no updates.**

**And yes, I want to thank you all for being patient and not forgetting about me :'D.**

**Oh, and yes, I have not read through this chapter since I wrote this about two or three months ago, so if there are any grammatical errors or anything of the like...I apologize. **

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At first, Arthur was rushing through time and space at such a speed that he could barely breathe. It was as if he was shooting into the sky, breaking through the atmospheres and ozone layers until he was suddenly released into empty, silent space. His heart seemed to jolt out of his chest from the momentum, skipping a beat before thumping wildly. Arthur tentatively cracked open an eye, letting the bright light stream in. He winced before blinking into the light.

The Memory-Alfred was no longer to be seen. Instead, Arthur was in the familiar hallways of the school. They were brightly lit from the sunlight streaming from the wide and tall windows that lined the hallway walls, but the hallways were empty. The school day must have already ended.

Arthur walked around aimlessly, not exactly sure where he was supposed to be to see what he wanted to see. He tried to open several doors, but they were locked. He took a peek at the clock on the wall in one of the locked classrooms. It read four thirty-three in the afternoon. Was Alfred in some sort of after-school activity?

Suddenly, Arthur heard the distant clacking of shoes on the hard floor. He spun around to see the past Alfred and Gilbert walking through the hallways toward him. Arthur immediately looked down and found to his horror that he was only wearing his pyjamas, and was about to duck into the nearest loo to hide, but then he realized that Alfred and Gilbert did not see him. He was completely invisible to them.

Despite his newly found invisibility, he tentatively crept up to them, wincing when his feet made noise as they tip-toed across the floor toward the duo. They were muttering to each other; Arthur leaned in forward to catch what they were saying.

"…been acting sort of funny, lately," Alfred said casually, jingling the keys to his car.

"Well, you haven't seen him all summer break," Gilbert said. Arthur noticed that even now Gilbert was wearing long sleeves. Had his arms already been scarred at that time? "You probably—I don't know—forgot some of his quirks over vacation."

"Ha ha, very funny," said Alfred, sticking his tongue out at Gilbert. "But no, I'm serious. He's all twitchy."

"Twitchy?" Gilbert said incredulously. "He's nervous and stressed like the dickens and the only word you can come up with is 'twitchy?'"

"See? So you _have_ noticed as well!" Alfred exclaimed, pointing a finger at Gilbert. "It isn't just me!"

Gilbert scowled. "You would too if I described Toris _twitchy_ of all things."

"Yeah, well, I can't afford to be articulate in every sentence," Alfred said lazily, waving a hand. "But seriously. It isn't just Toris either. Okay, so I might not know them that well, but don't you think Eduard and Raivis and Feliks are kinda acting weird too?"

"You're wonderful with adjectives," Gilbert said dryly. "If the word 'weird' means visibly upset and distressed, then of course."

"What are you, my English teacher?" Alfred grimaced. "But you know, the beginning of school isn't _that_ upsetting, so why are they so—you know—unhappy?"

"I don't know them any more than you do," Gilbert admitted. He stopped at his locker and unlocked it. "But is it our business?"

"I guess not," Alfred said, shrugging. Gilbert took his books from his locker and raised an eyebrow at Alfred.

"How's Makisig?" Gilbert said flatly.

Alfred let out a laugh. "Ahh, that little kid. He's such a laugh."

"Oh? What did you make him do this time?" There wasn't a hint of humor or curiosity in Gilbert's voice.

"Well, nothing _that_ worthy to tell," Alfred said, shrugging. "But you should have seen the clothes that kid was wearing today! It looked like it came from some vintage western store or something. I don't even know!"

"Of course you wouldn't know," Gilbert said in a bored tone. "It's a traditional Filipino piece of clothing."

"That kind of thing?" Alfred said incredulously. "Even my grandpa wouldn't wear it.

"That's obvious, because he _isn't Filipino._" Gilbert shoved the books into his rucksack and kicked his locker door closed.

"Come on, this isn't the Philippines anymore," Alfred whined. "Why's he doing Filipino stuff in a place that isn't Filipino?"

"Well, I'm just spit-balling here," Gilbert said sarcastically, "but I think he mentioned that it was some sort of holiday back at his place and he wanted to commemorate his roots. Last Monday of August or something like that. Remember when the history teacher asked this morning?"

"No. They have holidays there?"

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "Other countries have reasons to celebrate, you know. Patanindagat just does one thing that's _different_ to you and you just—"

"Wait, _how _did you pronounce his last name?" Alfred interrupted. He didn't seem to have heard the rest of Gilbert's sentence.

"Patanindagat," Gilbert repeated slowly.

Alfred let out a laugh. "So that's it! Wow, and this whole time I was calling him Makisig Pattinson!"

Gilbert gave Alfred a stare of disbelief before shaking his head and continuing on.

"Let me guess," Gilbert said. "The reason why you invited Patanindagat to your lunch table was so you can poke fun at his Filipino cuisine."

"How did you know he sits at my table?" Alfred said confusedly. "You don't eat at the commons anymore."

"Matthew told me," Gilbert said. "Is that why he stopped packing lunch and now only buys from the school cafeteria?"

"You should have _seen_ those things!" Alfred said. He was waving his arms wildly about him. "They looked so—so—weird!"

"Anything that isn't a burger is weird to you," Gilbert pointed out. "Can't you back off, though? In all honesty, kiddo, your level of awesomeness is depleting…"

"It's not like I'm doing it because I _hate_ him, though," Alfred defended.

"Yeah, it's just that you like making him an embarrassed laughingstock, huh?" Gilbert said as they walked out into the parking lot of the school.

"He should be proud of his heritage no matter what!" Alfred claimed.

Gilbert laughed dryly. He went to his motorcycle parked next to Alfred's car and pulled on his helmet. "My word, Alfred, after your comments and teasing, even I would hate being Prussian, and you know how much I'm proud of it."

"You're exaggerating," Alfred accused as Gilbert climbed onto his motorcycle. "I'm just having fun with him, that's all. It's nothing _serious_."

"You'd think that," Gilbert said, his voice slightly muffled from under the helmet. "Then again, you're the one doing all the teasing." He inserted his keys into the keyhole.

"You tease Roderich all you want and that's still fine?" Alfred said huffily.

"We're related. And I don't talk trash about his country's culture," Gilbert said mulishly. "Because Roderich can just shrug it off as a laugh and retort anytime he wants. For Patanindagat, you're talking about his entire country and family, not just him." He straightened his helmet. "Do you need me to pick you up to go to Antonio's place today?"

"What? Oh, that," Alfred said casually, unlocking his car door. "I'm not going to go."

"What?" Gilbert lifted the helmet off his head to hear properly. "Why? You promised him. You RSVPed and everything."

"I know, I know," Alfred said. "But something just came up and—well—can you tell him for me?"

"Whatever." Gilbert shoved the helmet back onto his head. "I'll see you."

Alfred gave a weak wave before Gilbert revved the engine and raced out of the virtually empty parking lot. Alfred watched his friend leave, and Arthur could see slight discomfort on Alfred's face. After a while, Alfred climbed into the car and shut the door, starting the engine. For a moment, Arthur panicked that Alfred would drive off and leave Arthur stranded in the school property, so he climbed on top of the car. To his surprise, as he placed his hands on the car, he sank through the metal and tumbled right inside. He lied still on the leather backseat, shaking off the shock that came with it, before sitting up.

As Alfred drove, Arthur began to suspect that Alfred was not heading straight home. In fact, it didn't seem as if he had any destination in mind at all. As he would reach an intersection, he would contemplate for a moment before shrugging to himself and choosing a path. He was driving for the sake of driving.

Arthur climbed into the passenger's seat, watching Alfred curiously. There was a shadow across Alfred's face, but Arthur had no idea what the reason for that was. His previous cheeriness and laidback attitude had hardened into something untouchable.

The time on the digital clock in the car slowly ticked away. First it was just minutes. Then tens of minutes. To Arthur's surprise and impatience, a whole hour soon passed, yet Alfred did nothing but drive through the streets, silent and brooding. He didn't even turn the radio on. When Alfred said that something came up that prevented him from going to Antonio's house, was this all that there was?

Alfred slowly parked his car by the side of the road. Arthur watched warily as Alfred jerked the keys out of the ignition. Cars zoomed past them on the road, not stopping or hesitating. Alfred watched out the window, which was actually past Arthur's head since Arthur sat beside the passenger seat's window. It was as if Alfred was looking straight into Arthur's eyes, even though Arthur knew they would never meet.

Alfred rested his head on the steering wheel, seemingly lost in deep thought. Arthur grew steadily frustrated because perhaps all the answers he wanted, that he sought, were rushing through Alfred's head that very moment and he had no means of reading them. He reached out and put his fingers on Alfred's temple, thinking wildly that perhaps he could delve into Alfred's thoughts like how Memory-Alfred had been able to transfer his memories to Arthur, but nothing of that sort happened.

"Legillimens," Arthur said desperately, resorting to fruitless incantations. Nothing.

He began to wonder why he had even come into Alfred's mind before suddenly all the colors around him blurred as if he was racing past at the speed of light, never stoppable, breaking the rules of the dimensions…

Arthur suddenly found himself in a math classroom instead of Alfred's car. He frowned, wondering what the point of seeing that last bit of the memory was, for it had not answered any questions. Indeed, he had been able to tell that something was bothering Alfred, but _what_ and _why_? That was what he came back for, wasn't it?

The math classroom was filled with students. Arthur gazed around, looking for any familiar faces. He recognized several, like Eduard von Bock and Anelise from Seychelles. He scanned the first row and immediately spotted Alfred. He was sitting next to an unfamiliar boy with dark hair, who was studying his textbook.

"All right, students," said the teacher, rapping his piece of chalk on the chalkboard. "Take out your assignments from last night and discuss the answers with your neighbors."

"Hey, Makisig, let's work together," Alfred said loudly, a bright grin on his face. Makisig gritted his teeth but did not object soon enough before Alfred swiveled his desk next to Makisig's, opening his notebook. Arthur hung back in the corner of the classroom, watching as the students compared answers for a minute or two before edging toward Alfred and Makisig.

"—and that's why number forty-three _has_ to be seven over pi!" Alfred exclaimed, tapping his pencil on Makisig's notebook. "That was so easy! How come you got that wrong?"

Arthur could feel Makisig's discomfort and indignation radiate from his body. "It was a careless mistake. I can assure you, it wasn't from my lack of understanding." It was evident that Makisig had received many jabs like this countless times before. Arthur felt ashamed watching Alfred and couldn't help but move farther away from the two.

"Come on, come on, it's okay to admit it!" Alfred said blithely. "I mean, I'm pretty surprised you got this far, considering you moved here from the Philippines and all."

"I beg your pardon?" Makisig said sharply.

"Don't you have like, villages and stuff?" Alfred pressed on. Makisig's face hardened immediately, and Arthur could tell immediately that Alfred was crossing the line.

"For your information," Makisig said icily, "The Philippines is much developed with cities and suburbs, just like other countries all over the world."

"What, so you all don't live in straw huts?" Alfred said confusedly. "Because I remember reading in our history book and looking at the old black and white photographs…"

Arthur backed far away from the two of them. He did not come into the past just to watch Alfred berate another person's country, whether it was intentional or not. He fleetingly remembered Gilbert's comment about Alfred gaining an enemy in Makisig, and Arthur suddenly realized the reason why.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash. Arthur, who had been distracting himself by doodling on the chalkboard in the back of the room and watching with both fascination and frustration as his chalk drawings were wiped from existence seconds after they were made, spun around with surprise. Makisig's chair was on the ground, and his face was absolutely livid. Even Alfred looked fairly shocked.

"Just shut up!" Makisig shouted, his voice afire with anger. "Why can't you just leave me alone? What have I done to you?"

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, immediately feeling embarrassed and ashamed. He wanted to get out of this scene. He tried to block out Makisig's shouting, feeling extremely uncomfortable for witnessing it.

And he was racing time and space once more. Everything around him was just a multicolored blur and howling motion. The travel was shorter now, and Arthur was thrown near the city bookstore. He stumbled, nearly falling onto his back after the sudden halt. The streets were very crowded by now, and people were squeezing past each other to walk through the streets. Arthur soon appreciated his nonexistence because he did not have to bother with squirming through a crowd to follow Alfred this time. He could simply walk right through everyone.

Alfred was with Gilbert again, standing by the door of the large bookstore, watching the people pass them. Their mouths were moving, but Arthur couldn't hear them over the loud commotion of beeping car horns, city construction, and other people's voices. He ran toward them to catch what they were saying.

"He moved away," Gilbert said as Arthur approached them. His eyes were staring off into space. "Transferred schools. I thought you of all people would notice."

"I did notice," argued Alfred, frowning. "I knew he wasn't at school, I just didn't know why. He didn't tell me he was moving."

"Pfft, why would he tell you?" Gilbert scoffed. "He probably thought you would make another Filipino jab if he mentioned it."

"I wouldn't have," Alfred said sharply. Gilbert raised an eyebrow but did not respond. Alfred bristled with indignation. "I wouldn't! What could I have said that would be insulting anyway?"

"Good grief, Alfred, anything you say to that kid can be taken as insulting," Gilbert said shortly. "Mostly because practically everything you said to him was pretty slanderous."

Alfred seemed to want to retort before Gilbert wandered off away from him. Confused, both Alfred and Arthur tailed after Gilbert as the latter swiftly maneuvered his way through the sidewalk.

"What are you doing?" Alfred demanded.

"I think I hear someone," Gilbert said. He turned into an alleyway before immediately backing out. He pressed his back against the brick wall, craning his neck to glimpse inside the narrow alley. Alfred followed, bending low to see what was going on. Arthur merely walked right into the alleyway.

"There's Toris and Braginski," Gilbert muttered. His eyes widened. "And Eliza too. What are they doing?"

Arthur crept closer to the three in the alley. They were unnoticed by everyone passing by because they were half-hidden by several crates stacked against the wall. Elizaveta was almost completely hidden from view and Toris was beside her, shaking. Both of their backs were turned toward them. Ivan was leaning against the wall, watching the two with a childlike curiosity. Arthur hid behind the crates even though he knew that no one could see him. It was as if by instinct or by habit.

"I told you, didn't I?" Ivan said in his soft voice, but it was such a voice that Arthur had never heard before. It was sickly sweet like sugared arsenic, something mad and dangerous creeping underneath. "I said not to get anyone involved, little Toris. Now you've dragged Miss Héderváry into your troubles."

"I am _not_ dragged into this," Elizaveta said stubbornly, though her voice was trembling slightly. "I'm going to drag everyone else out of this! You can't keep abusing people like this!"

"You still say that after what I taught you?" Ivan said coldly. Arthur cast a glance back at Gilbert and Alfred. He doubted that the two could hear what was going on between Ivan, Toris, and Elizaveta, because there was still confusion in their eyes. "That I'm abusing them? I'm merely friends with them, but friends must teach each other respect, da? Well, looks like I'll have to teach you _more_, shouldn't I?"

"Your idea of friendship is sickening!" Elizaveta hissed. Arthur poked his head around the sides of the crates to see Ivan's face. Ivan's face had darkened when Elizaveta spoke, but it immediately softened with an unnatural serenity.

Arthur slid back to where Gilbert and Alfred were. Alfred was whispering loudly in Gilbert's ear, and Gilbert's eyes were steely.

"It probably isn't anything!" Alfred hissed. "Let's go, can't we? Just text Eliza later about it!"

"You were the one complaining about Toris and everyone else being all _twitchy_," Gilbert accused. "Maybe this has some answers!"

"Look, Ivan and Toris are friends. I mean, they hang out a lot at school and everything."

Gilbert narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, but have you ever had the impression that he was _happy_ with Braginski? I mean, he always looks pretty miserable to me."

"C'mon, Gil, we're supposed to go to Francis's place," Alfred reminded impatiently.

"You go ahead," Gilbert said, waving Alfred aside.

"What? No—come on—you aren't—" Alfred stammered.

"Humor me, won't you?" Gilbert said exasperatedly. "I'll be there in thirty minutes or something. You'll be fine. Just go."

"God, fine," Alfred said huffily before hurrying away. Arthur was about to follow until he stopped himself. Would the memory move on without him if he stayed with Gilbert to see what would happen next?

Gilbert silently crept into the alley, pressing himself against the wall so that the crates would conceal him. His eyes narrowed as Ivan's words became more pronounced and audible.

"…should join the four of us as well, Miss Héderváry," Ivan said silkily. Gilbert gritted his teeth. "I would _love _to have your company—"

"I wouldn't come near you even if I had a ten-foot sabre with me!" Elizaveta snapped.

"But that would be unfortunate," said Ivan. "You see, I _very_ rarely ever get refused, and if you do…" He lowered his voice. "I wouldn't want you to get _hurt_, da? But if you are so stubborn…"

The word 'hurt' seemed to hit Gilbert the most. He pushed himself away from the wall, revealing his presence to the other three.

"What's going on here?" he demanded sharply.

Elizaveta and Toris spun around, shocked. Toris's eyes widened; he evidently did not want to see Gilbert here. Elizaveta suddenly looked very fearful. Ivan, on the other hand, gave a smile that showed all his teeth, though the warmth certainly did not reach his eyes.

"Gilbert Beilschmidt!" Ivan said warmly, raising his hands as if about to embrace Gilbert. "So nice to see you!"

"Don't play all innocent with me," Gilbert spat. "What are you doing to them?" He jerked his head toward Toris and Elizaveta.

"Get away, Gilbert," Toris whispered. "Just go. Don't stay!"

"I was merely conversing with my friends," Ivan said with a surprised tone. "Is that unusual?"

"In a place like this? Yes, a lovely place for a little reunion and chit-chat," Gilbert said sarcastically, his eyes hanging over the many overturned trashcans and rubbish strewn on the gritty ground. "You were threatening to hurt them. I heard you. So don't you dare lie."

Ivan's honeyed tones immediately darkened, and his eyes hardened. "You're being awfully cruel now, aren't you, Gilbert?"

"You're the one to talk," Gilbert growled. He noticed the frantic warnings in Toris's eyes but he pressed on anyway. "Leave them alone."

"Or what? Will you run to a teacher and tattle on me?" Ivan taunted.

"I wouldn't care if you call me a sneak or a tattle-tale or a piece of shit if I do," Gilbert shot at him. Ivan's smile grew tauter and much more threatening.

"Then I see that you and Miss Héderváry both need some lessons," Ivan said gently. "I think I need to teach you that no one—" And suddenly his voice became dangerous. "—shall threaten me."

Before Gilbert could react, Ivan reached out and roughly grabbed the front of his shirt. Gilbert was shoved against the wall, one hand over his mouth and the other at his throat. Elizaveta let out a small cry and she rushed over, trying to tug Ivan's arm away from Gilbert. Toris rushed to fight Ivan's other arm. Arthur reached out too, ready to help, but when he tried to strike Ivan, Ivan did not budge. The impact did not even hurt Arthur.

"If any of you try anything," Ivan said in a low voice, pressed harder against Gilbert's neck. Gilbert's arms flailed, trying to push Ivan away, "you'll get to see someone get hurt very badly, and it'll be all your fault. Do you all understand me?"

"Just let him go!" Elizaveta pleaded. "Stop that!"

Ivan released Gilbert, but not without shoving his hand hard unceremoniously on Gilbert's neck. Gilbert coughed violently, rubbing his neck as Elizaveta pulled him away from Ivan immediately. He stared up at Ivan with a mixture of disbelief and hatred.

"I'll see you tomorrow in school, da?" Ivan said softly.

Arthur was thrown back into the confusing flurry of jumping dimensions once more, spinning in a whirlwind of time and color. The colors whipped his hair all around his face, making him squint. He half regretted leaving the scene; he wanted to know what would happen to Gilbert, Elizaveta, and Toris afterward. Obviously Ivan had affected them so much that they wouldn't report him so readily, right?

He was now in an unfamiliar house. Alfred was pacing in the kitchen, cramming fistfuls of ginger snaps into his mouth. Francis and Antonio were sitting on the barstools by the kitchen island. Arthur couldn't help but feel a little awkward standing in the same room as all of them when he was barely friends with them. He was suddenly reminded of all those times when he was lonely in various schools and was left standing silently and uneasily aside from everyone else.

"Where can that stupid idiot be?" Alfred grumbled, crumbs flying from his mouth as he spoke. "It can't have taken him this long."

"Maybe he got lost," Antonio suggested, typing on the laptop.

"How is it possible that he could get lost coming to my house?" Francis demanded. "He's been coming over here for ages. He's not as forgetful as you, Antonio."

"I don't know then," Antonio said simply, logging in on his Facebook account. "Hey look, Makisig replied on my wall post…took him long enough…"

"What?" Alfred looked up. "Makisig has a Facebook account?"

"Very few people don't have one nowadays…" Francis commented.

"What school is he in, anyway?" Alfred asked casually. "I never knew he transferred schools until today."

"You didn't know? But he has been absent for a good four days already. What did you think?" asked Antonio, typing on the laptop.

"I don't know," Alfred said. "Why, though? It's all so sudden, you know? An out of the blue decision."

"Oh, you don't know?" Antonio said with surprise. "I thought he told everyone. He said it's because of you."

Alfred halted in his pacing and eating. He turned sharply to Antonio. "Wait—what? Why?"

"Because he couldn't stand you anymore," Antonio said simply, unaware of the growing tense discomfort in the atmosphere. "He couldn't take your bullying anymore, or something like that. Right, Francis?"

Francis gave a small shrug and a short nod. Alfred felt his heart sink low to his stomach. Never had he considered any of his actions as bullying, but apparently it was so much that it forced Makisig to leave the school. He cleared his throat but didn't know how to close the gap of silence between them.

_But I didn't mean to hurt Makisig like that,_ he thought. _I was just making jokes. Surely my intentions outweigh, right?_

But his conscience knew better. It didn't matter how he felt about what he had done, because _everyone else_ thought him a bullying tyrant, didn't they? Alfred F. Jones, the bully. Alfred F. Jones, the destroyer of happiness. He didn't see a ring to it.

He thought back to all the times he joked around with Makisig and felt a growing awkwardness and discomfort. Soon he was laden with guilt that he had never expected. Had he really been that cruel? He stole glances at Antonio and Francis, who did not seem to be very shocked at the news. Did even they think of him as spiteful? He didn't want to be known as the school's vindictive tormentor.

That wasn't who he was.

Honest to God, he never wanted to be.

But how was he supposed to prove it now that everyone else knew he had driven Makisig into transferring schools?

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a banging on the front door. Francis hurried to the foyer to unlock the front door as Alfred and Antonio followed him. As Francis pulled open the heavy front door, Gilbert stumbled in.

"What took you so long?" Alfred demanded. Gilbert didn't speak. He kicked off his shoes after he closed the door behind him. He wouldn't look at anyone in the eye.

"Sorry I'm late," he grunted.

"Apology accepted. But really, why were you so late?" Alfred asked. The thought of Makisig and his guilt still did not leave his mind, pricking the back of his thoughts like a sharp needle.

"I just got caught up, all right?" Gilbert said sharply. "Sorry for my fashionably late entrance. I assure you, I would have been sooner if I had any say about it."

"No matter, no matter," Francis said, waving a hand lazily. "Come on, let's go back to the kitchen." He Antonio turned away to return to the kitchen. Gilbert was about to follow when Alfred suddenly grabbed his elbow and pulled him back.

"What's the big idea?" Gilbert demanded.

"What's up with your neck?" Alfred said in a low voice.

"What?" Gilbert looked uneasy. He jerked his arm away from Alfred's arm. "Nothing's wrong with my neck."

"Oh yeah? Why's there a big bruise on it?" Alfred accused. Gilbert winced and shook his head.

"Nothing," he said casually. "Just got a bit—I don't know—clumsy." He gave a careless shrug. "Come on. Let's go."

"Hold up there," Alfred protested.

"You're the one complaining how late I am. Now you're holding us up," Gilbert quipped. "I've had it for a while. You probably never noticed it until now."

Alfred frowned suspiciously, but did not contradict. He watched Gilbert as the latter trudged toward the kitchen, restlessness making his stomach churn.

"Hey, Gil," he said out of the blue.

Gilbert turned around. "What?"

"What do you think of me?" Alfred asked.

Gilbert raised his eyebrows. "Why do you ask that?"

"Just tell me, won't you?" said Alfred. "And don't sugarcoat anything. I just want your honest truth."

"Is this the time?" Gilbert said weakly. He gestured behind him, where Antonio and Francis were waiting for them in the kitchen.

Alfred's heart skipped nervously in his ribcage. Why did Gilbert keep avoiding the question? Perhaps Gilbert thought badly of Alfred? Impatience and paranoia wracked his nerves.

"What's bothering you?" Gilbert asked.

"I—" Alfred hesitated, catching the words before they left his mouth. Gilbert already sensed the truth and he grew serious. He bit his lip contemplatively before turning toward the kitchen.

"Hey, Francis?" Gilbert called out.

"Oui?" Francis's voice carried out of the kitchen.

"I left my notebook at home. I'm going to run back and get it, okay?"

"My word, Gilbert! You're getting more and more forgetful," Francis sighed. "Fine, fine. Hurry up, though. Time is of the essence."

"Sure thing," Gilbert said hastily, kicking on his shoes. "Come with me," he urged quietly to Alfred.

Alfred nodded. "I'll go with Gil," he announced loudly.

"My word, you two, just hurry up!" Francis urged. Gilbert let out a chuckle before opening the front door and rushing out. Alfred quickly followed.

"What's up with you?" Gilbert said immediately after he closed the door. "It's not every day you value other people's opinion of you."

Alfred pursed his lips. "Is that how you really think I am?"

Gilbert furrowed his eyebrows at Alfred. "Okay, spill. You're never this serious. What's eating you?"

"Why won't you answer my question?" Alfred demanded.

"What question?" Gilbert said warily.

"The one about what you think of me, truly," Alfred reminded Gilbert as they hurried through the neighborhood street. Gilbert let out a sigh of relief and discreetly pulled the collar of his jacket higher up.

"That. Well, I'll need more time than just five seconds to come up with a soliloquy of your amazingness, right?" Gilbert said casually.

"Would you really?" Alfred said, raising an eyebrow.

"Why are you asking?"

"You never really answered the question," Alfred said stubbornly. "You can't possibly think I'm just amazing, can you?"

"My goodness, Alfred. Do you doubt compliments? Since when did this happen?" Gilbert said suspiciously.

"Stop kidding around, Gilbert. I'm being serious," Alfred begged.

Gilbert gave a small shrug. "Fine. You want the truth? Okay." He frowned a little before continuing on. "You've got your faults, but who doesn't? Besides me, of course." He gave an ironic smile before growing solemn again. "But yeah. Everyone has their faults."

"What are my faults?" Alfred demanded.

"What has gotten you so curious?" Gilbert said incredulously. "Before, you didn't care what people thought was wrong with you!"

"Can't you just tell me and stop changing the subject?" Alfred said edgily.

"Geez, fine!" Gilbert said. "One thing, you're pretty impatient!"

"Oh, like you're any better," smirked Alfred.

"Ha ha. At least I'm not as outward about it," Gilbert said. "And…well…you aren't exactly tactful."

"How do you mean?" Alfred said quickly.

Gilbert gave a sidelong glance at Alfred suspiciously. "Can't you tell me why you're so curious first?"

"What difference does it make?" Alfred said. "Would you give me different answers?"

"No. I'd just feel more comfortable saying them," said Gilbert, narrowing his eyes.

"Fine," said Alfred reluctantly. "I'll be the better of the two of us and say the truth first."

"Oh, you're an admirable bloke. Go on."

Alfred hesitated. Arthur walked beside the two of them, waiting for Alfred to speak. The coarse gravel made his bare feet ache as he hurried to keep up with them.

"Do you think I'm a bully?" Alfred said warily.

"Depends," Gilbert said shortly. "In general? No. To some people? Yeah. You are."

Alfred suppressed a wince. "Why do you say that, hm?"

"Because I've seen it," Gilbert said frankly. "I am not going to ignore the whole Makisig case and all, you know. And—well—you sort of do it to everyone else in a minor way."

"What?" Alfred said, his eyes widening.

"Why do you ask?" Gilbert said firmly.

Alfred scowled, disliking how Gilbert constantly tried to move the conversation. He sighed and gave a shrug. "I just—well—I didn't _want_ to be a bully and all, but I wonder if other people…"

"So you've heard about what Makisig said, huh?" Gilbert said.

"You knew too?" Alfred said painfully.

"He didn't tell me. Antonio did," said Gilbert, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets to shield them from the biting autumn breeze. "But it sort of seemed obvious, you know?"

"I know, I know," Alfred said quickly. "But I've never _meant_ to make Makisig feel that way. You believe me when I say that, don't you?"

"Mmhmm," Gilbert said dismissively. "Is that all you wanted to ask?"

Alfred opened his mouth. No, that wasn't all he wanted to say. He wanted to ask if Gilbert didn't like him as much anymore because of that. He wanted to ask if everyone talked secretly behind his back about how cruel he was. He wanted to know if _everyone _hated him, if _everyone else_ was disgusted by him.

All those questions and fears were coursing through him like white water rapids, trying to force themselves out of his mouth.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Alfred managed to spit out. He could never bring himself to ask. He wasn't certain if he wanted to know the answer.

"Let's go back, then," Gilbert said, pausing in the middle of the road.

"Wait, aren't we going back to get your notebook?" Alfred asked.

"Beh, I had left it in Francis's house the last time, so not really," Gilbert said simply.

"Oh-h-h-h," Alfred said knowingly, following Gilbert back. He waited a couple minutes in silence before asking another question.

"So what was Braginski doing in the alleyway anyway?"

Gilbert didn't respond at first. He hesitated, while in the meantime Arthur was urging him with all his mind power to speak up.

"Nothing," Gilbert finally said. Arthur had the urge to slap his forehead. Why couldn't he be real in this memory, and be able to affect Gilbert and Alfred so he could slap some sense into the two of them? "I think Braginski was probably trying to solicit them or something."

"Not drugs or anything, right?" Alfred said jokingly.

"If it was Braginski, it would be vodka," Gilbert said dryly.

"How'd you get your bruise?"

"Nothing serious," Gilbert said swiftly. "I'll race you back to Bonnefoy's place." And before Alfred could try to continue the subject, Gilbert broke into a run and darted back to Francis's house. Alfred let out a shout of indignation before chasing after him. Arthur reluctantly broke into a jog, following the racing teenagers.

The present Gilbert had told him how Ivan Braginski had made his life practically a living hell…what was Gilbert signing himself up for, not telling Alfred or apparently anyone what Ivan had threatened?

Suddenly, it was as if he was racing at the speed of light. As he ran, his surroundings suddenly passed him at an alarming speed, zooming past as if he was leaving this world and shooting straight through the atmosphere to the stars. The motion made Arthur feel dizzy; time was taking a toll on him.

"Can I be honest with you?"

Arthur heard the voice before motion stopped for him. He stumbled when everything around him suddenly jolted to a halt. He fell onto all fours, his knees and hand stinging from the impact on the hard and cold floor. He clambered onto his feet quickly, indignantly dusting specs of dust and dirt off his pyjamas. He couldn't affect anything in this world, yet it could greatly affect him. Where was the fairness in that?

"Are you saying you haven't been honest to me all this time?" Gilbert said wryly.

"Of course I have!" Alfred said indignantly. "I'm just saying—well—can I tell you a secret?"

Arthur glanced around him just to see where this memory took place. They were in the school building once more, except this time they were in the commons. Many other students were eating lunch and jabbering at surrounding tables. Alfred and Gilbert's conversation blended in easily.

"I'm all ears, old sport," Gilbert said lazily, mashing his potatoes with a fork.

"Everyone is looking at me," Alfred said.

Gilbert laughed. "You always say that."

"I know I do, but this is different!" Alfred exclaimed. He lowered his voice. "They're looking at me as if they're _afraid _of me. Or _ashamed_ of me. They've never done that before. Not really."

Gilbert stabbed his potatoes vigorously. "It just started?"

"No," Alfred admitted. "It's been going on for a while." He poked his fried chicken on his food tray. "It can't be because they don't like me, can it?"

"I don't know. I'm not the one giving you the stink eye," Gilbert replied, mashing his potatoes for the sake of something to do with his hands. Arthur sat in between them, rapping his fingers on the table. He was slightly confused and impatient. Sure, it was interesting to see what Alfred was like in the past, but in all honesty, _what was the point of all this_?

"Do they hate me because of that whole Makisig incident?" Alfred said warily.

"I wouldn't have an idea. Why don't you go ask them?" Gilbert said sardonically.

"God, who killed your pet goldfish and flushed 'em down the toilet?" Alfred said. "What's up? Why are you all…grumpy?"

"Grumpy? I'm not _grumpy_!" Gilbert snapped.

"Whatever you say, mate," Alfred said suspiciously.

"And for your information, it probably _is_ because of Makisig," Gilbert said, veering the conversation back to its original subject. "I mean, he was a likable kid, I guess. His friends wouldn't be too keen that you drove him out of here."

"For the last time, I didn't drive him out!" Alfred said loudly. Surrounding tables turned their heads curiously at Alfred's direction. Alfred quickly quieted. "I didn't mean to at all! I mean, what would I have got to gain if I did, anyway?"

"Don't tell that to me!" Gilbert hissed. "I'm just saying, that's probably the opinions of other people!"

"But I'm _not_ that kind of person!" Alfred protested. "I really am not! How am I supposed to show that to them?"

"Community service?" Gilbert mumbled. He cast a sidelong glance and stiffened. Arthur turned to see as well. At the edge of the commons was Ivan Braginski, a sweet smile on his round face. His lilac eyes were drilling right into Gilbert. He beckoned Gilbert to come follow him. Gilbert set his jaw before turning away.

"This isn't awesome at all," Alfred lamented unaware of Gilbert's discomfort. "I can't have everyone hating me! I want to be on good terms with everyone!"

"Time will pass and things will go back to normal," Gilbert said. He was practically slamming his plastic fork down on his uneaten potatoes as if they had wronged him terribly. "Maybe you should apologize to Makisig."

"I don't even know where he lives. Or what his phone number is. Or anything," Alfred said.

"He's got a Facebook, doesn't he? So do you," said Gilbert. He cast another glance at Ivan again and his eyes widened. Somehow Ivan had roped Elizaveta in to follow him. Ivan turned to Gilbert and beamed, placing a large hand on Elizaveta's shoulder. She shuddered and looked like she had half the mind to punch Ivan in the stomach, but she was trembling.

"I've got to go," Gilbert said immediately. He stood from his seat. "Want my potatoes?"

"Where are you going?" Alfred asked. "Lunch doesn't end for another fifteen minutes."

"I'm going to cram in some extra studying," Gilbert said hurriedly, pushing the plate of potatoes toward Alfred. Alfred cast a wary glance at them. "I'll see you, okay?" His words were rushed, and his eyes kept darting toward Ivan and Elizaveta. Ivan looked particularly pleased; apparently everything was going according to plan.

"Studying for what? We just had a test in calculus!" Alfred exclaimed.

"Yeah, well, I want to check if I made any mistakes and crap," Gilbert said quickly. He hauled his backpack from the ground and slung it over his shoulder. "See you in a couple classes!" Without waiting for Alfred to reply, Gilbert hurried out of the commons. Alfred narrowed his eyes as he watched Gilbert strode up to Ivan. Arthur raised himself from his seat as well, but did not venture closer to Gilbert or Braginski. By the looks of it, Gilbert was speaking harshly with Ivan. Ivan tried to put a hand on Gilbert's shoulder but Gilbert jerked away, trying to pull Elizaveta away as well. Arthur turned back to Alfred; the latter had a look of confusion and suspicion on his face.

"What the heck?" Alfred muttered to himself. He disposed of his lunch and Gilbert's untouched potatoes in the trash can before striding toward Ivan, Elizaveta and Gilbert. Arthur scrambled out of his seat, nearly tripping over the legs of his chair, and followed. However, before Arthur or Alfred could reach the three, they had disappeared out of the commons. Alfred untangled himself from the crowded area of chairs and tables and looked both ways in the hallway, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Where did they run off to?" Alfred said.

"I don't know," Arthur replied out of habit, even though no one could hear him. Arthur peeked around the corner and immediately spotted Ivan's retreating back in the far end, along with Gilbert and Elizaveta.

"Hey!" Arthur said. "Hey, they're over here!" He turned around, and to his dismay, saw Alfred opting to venture to the other hallway. "You idiot! They're in this hallway!"

But Alfred did not hear Arthur. Arthur grabbed Alfred's sleeve and tried to drag him toward the other direction, but his fingers seemed to slip right off Alfred's arm as if it was made of ice. He groaned in disappointment and frustration.

"Oi! Hey, Mattie!" Arthur lifted his head immediately when Alfred spoke. Alfred was waving his hand to his twin brother in the hallway. Matthew closed his locker and turned to Alfred.

"What?" Matthew replied.

"Have you seen Gilbert around here? Maybe with Braginski tagging along?" Alfred asked.

"No," Matthew said. "I don't think they would've gone down this hallway. I would have noticed."

"Man, I was sure they came down here," Alfred muttered to himself.

"Idiot," Arthur couldn't help but grunt.

"Why aren't you eating lunch?" Alfred asked. "You have the same lunch time as I do, don't you?"

"Well—yes, I suppose," Matthew said with uncertainty.

"Well, why aren't you?" Alfred demanded.

"Um—n-none of my friends are in the same lunch as me," Matthew said shamefacedly. His eyes were glued to an invisible point on the ground.

"Hey, you can sit with me, ya know," Alfred said, clapping a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "I'm gonna fly. Gilbert's acting weird lately."

Matthew nodded and Alfred dashed off. Arthur shook his head and turned the other direction, rushing toward the right way. He wasn't up to following Alfred to the wrong path. He wanted the truth. He ran as fast as he could, his bare feet slapping painfully on the cold hard floor.

It took him a good five minutes to locate Gilbert, Braginski, and Elizaveta in an empty lecture hall. Arthur had melted right through the closed door and entered the dimly lit room. There was another familiar face in the room as well. Arthur had never formally met the student, but he recognized him as Feliks Łukasiewicz. He seemed extremely uncomfortable in the situation as well.

"I thought we've agreed that you would be with me during the lunch period," Ivan said softly.

Gilbert crossed his arms tightly across his chest. "I thought I made it clear that I don't want anything to do with you."

"And yet you are here," Ivan said calmly, bowing his head slightly. "Your disobedience and disrespect is quite hurtful, Gilbert. You could lose friends that way."

"Good," Gilbert said through gritted teeth.

"I never said which friends," Ivan said tranquilly. His hand was still on Elizaveta's arm, and he tightened his grip. Elizavetta tried to wriggle her arm away, but his ironclad fist was too strong. Gilbert jerked, as if about to strike Ivan. "Hm? If you didn't want to be around me, why are you here?"

"I don't fear you," Gilbert said hotly.

"Then why did you come willingly? I didn't put a leash around your neck and drag you against your will," said Ivan.

"I was afraid you'd hurt—someone else," Gilbert forced out the words.

"So you _are_ afraid of something, I see," Ivan said warmly. Gilbert closed his eyes, mentally scolding himself for revealing the bit of weakness.

"Braginski, this is getting totally out of hand," Feliks finally spoke up. "I'm tired of you badgering and like, scaring Liet and me and everyone else."

"I'm not here to merely badger and scare you all," Ivan said coldly. "I wouldn't need to if you all were better people."

"You really think you can keep this up?" Gilbert growled. "Maybe if you didn't use threats, you wouldn't have to use violence and scare tactics to get friends!"

Ivan let go of Elizaveta's arm. Elizaveta rubbed her forearm warily, glaring at Ivan. Ivan strode toward Gilbert.

"How is your thin, little neck, Gilbert?" Ivan said softly. He reached out and took a hold of Gilbert's neck. Gilbert slapped Ivan's hand out of the way, flinching when Ivan's fingertips lingered on his skin. "Such an ugly bruise."

Gilbert did not speak. He continued glowering at Ivan. Ivan smiled angelically and tapped Gilbert's chin up to examine the bruise more closely.

"It wouldn't look very unattractive on Miss Héderváry or your brother's face, would it?" Ivan whispered so only Gilbert could hear. Gilbert's eyes widened for a millisecond. "Be a good boy, Beilschmidt."

Gilbert pushed himself away from Ivan, hatred clearly written on his face.

"We should all get to know each other a little better, shall we?" Ivan said sweetly.

Everything became a whirlwind of memories once more. Arthur closed his eyes to block out the whooshing colors and waited until the rushing wind stopped sounding in his ears. He cracked one eye open.

He heard stifled laughter, but could barely see anything. The room was very dark, and only a thin sliver of moonlight trickled in between the cracks of the drawn curtains. He blinked several times, his eyes adjusting slowly to night. He squinted, trying to make out the shadows in the room.

There was a large bed sheet draped over two chairs and a standing lamp. Arthur could see silhouettes against the sheets: there were two people crouching under it, doubling over with laughter. Arthur contemplated peeking under, but he figured that even though he was barely palpable, there wasn't enough room for him to squeeze in. He tried to lift the sheet up, but his fingers passed right through.

"What time is it?" a soft voice asked, still tinted with humor. Alfred perked up at the sound of the voice; it was most definitely Matthew.

"Uhh, two in the morning," Alfred's voice said.

"We should get to sleep," Matthew whispered.

"Are you kidding me? Come on, Mattie, tomorrow is a Saturday!" Alfred whined. "We haven't even gotten to roast marshmallows over our fire yet!"

"D-don't do that!" There was much flailing of the arms and Arthur had to move out of the way to avoid getting hit by their hands. "Not under the tent! What if the blanket falls and catches on fire?"

"It's a candle, Mattie! I'm sure the blanket would sooner put the flame out than catch everything on fire!" Alfred said. "Relax! Where's your inner camper?"

"My inner camper is outside, waiting to start the fire away from under a roof like how it should be done."

"Fine, fine, but don't pull the tent down!" Alfred crawled out from under the sheet. Arthur stifled a chuckle behind his hand. Alfred was wearing footie pyjamas with red, white, and blue stars. Matthew followed, hugging a stuffed bear. Arthur instinctively checked the date on the calendar hanging on the wall, thinking wildly for a moment that Memory-Alfred had accidentally sent Arthur much further back in time. It wasn't the case.

"I'll do that," Matthew said, taking the lighter from Alfred's hands.

"What? But I wanna do it! Come on, you always get to light the fires!" Alfred said, grabbing for the lighter.

"That's because the last time you tried to light a candle, you nearly set Tino's dog on fire," Matthew scolded, lighting the candle. The tiny flame nestled in the waxy well in the middle of the cream-colored candle. A fragile aroma of vanilla wafted under their noses.

"We should do this more often, you know?" Alfred said, opening a fresh bag of fat marshmallows. Matthew shrugged, smiling lightly.

"But then they won't be as fun, right?" Matthew pointed out.

"What, you really think we'd get tired of having nights like this?" Alfred said.

"No," Matthew chuckled. He took a marshmallow from the bag and prodded it with his skewer. Alfred stabbed three at once with his stick. "It makes me relax. Helps me forget about this week."

Alfred let the tiny flame tickle his marshmallows. "How _have_ you been, anyway?"

Matthew shrugged tiredly. "I don't know."

"Come on, tell me what you're thinking," Alfred urged. "I never see you at lunch. Heck, I never see you at all."

"No one does," Matthew said simply. "I'm serious. I don't know why no one pays attention to me. Even if I'm talking directly to someone, they act as if they never heard me."

Alfred bit into his crisp marshmallow. He chewed contemplatively, his blue eyes lit by the dancing flame. Matthew held his marshmallow over the candle, not actually paying attention to the fire.

"I get that I'm quiet," Matthew said. "But am I supposed to change myself to make other people even _notice_ me? Do they really not like who I am now?"

"Don't say that, Mattie!" Alfred said, his lips sticky with the white marshmallow. "You're my awesome twin brother! Why would no one like you?"

Matthew hugged his knees to his chest. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Make everyone notice you," Matthew said. "Everyone knows who you are. I hear them talk about you."

"What do they say?" Alfred said quickly.

"Oh, I don't listen in on their conversations," Matthew said casually. "I just hear your name crop up every now and then."

Alfred at first seemed to smile at the pride, but then a shadow of fear crossed his face. Arthur wondered if Alfred feared what he had been badgering Gilbert about before, if everyone only saw him as a bully and secretly hated him.

"What are your dreams, Alfred?" Matthew asked.

"Hm? What do you mean?" said Alfred.

"I mean, what you want to be when you grow up. Or your plans for the future," Matthew said. "What's your goal in life?"

Alfred rubbed his chin contemplatively. "I want to be the very best!" he laughed.

"But at what?" Matthew prodded.

"Anything would suit me. Maybe I'll be in the secret service. Or a leading businessman. Someone who would make a difference." He grinned. "What about you?"

Matthew laughed weakly. "I'm having enough trouble picturing the next day." He gave a small shrug. "I guess my biggest goal right now is to have people remember who I am. If anyone does know me, it's always because they confused me as you." He chuckled in spite of himself. "Do you really think we look similar?"

"No. I don't think so at all, actually," Alfred said point-blankly. "I mean, we're completely different."

"Not according to everyone else," Matthew said, nibbling on the edge of his barely burnt marshmallow. "School is becoming a nightmare. I wouldn't care if the entire school hated me or loved me. I just want them to notice me."

"You really think that?" Alfred said, gnawing ferociously at his sticky marshmallow. Matthew nodded.

"What about you?" Matthew asked. "How is life for you? Good? Bad?"

Alfred glanced up at Matthew. He opened his mouth, as if about to admit to Matthew about his fears, about his nervousness around his own peers, about his guilt and his shame. His secrets. His impenetrable pride. What would it hurt if he told his own brother?

But Arthur could see it in Alfred's eyes. Hesitation. Wariness.

Why couldn't he say something?

"No," Alfred said simply, spearing more marshmallows. "School's a breeze. Everything's just peachy."

"Lucky," Matthew sighed. Alfred bit his lip. Arthur could sense Alfred's discomfort in the atmosphere. He gritted his teeth; why couldn't he just tell Matthew? He had told Gilbert. Perhaps he told someone else as well. Makisig would probably know about it also. Why couldn't Matthew know?

"Well, if anyone ever gives you a headache or anything, just whistle for me. You know that, right?" Alfred said, ruffling Matthew's hair. "Who am I?"

"The superhero," Matthew said, rolling his eyes. Alfred frowned.

"What, do you doubt it?" Alfred said, fear nipping at his voice.

Matthew laughed, but he didn't answer Alfred directly. Alfred became more uneasy.

"Mattie, what do you think of me?" Alfred asked the familiar question.

"What?" Matthew blinked confusedly. "What do you mean by that?"

"What are my faults?" Alfred demanded. "You know, what's something you don't like about me?"

"Since when did you care?" Matthew asked, surprised. Alfred barely winced. So even Matthew had thought Alfred as conceited, didn't he? Did they all?

"Just tell me," Alfred pleaded. Matthew sighed contemplatively, pushing his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose.

"I don't care what you're faults are, Alfred," Matthew said warily. "What is this all about?"

"Nothing," Alfred said quickly. "Just…it's nothing."

"Are you okay, Alfred?" Matthew said worriedly.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Alfred said loudly.

Matthew did not look any more comforted. "You can talk to me, you know. You can trust me."

"I know that already," Alfred said brightly, ruffling Matthew's hair again. He saw Matthew's anxiety on his face and chuckled. "Don't look at me like that, man! Geez, why are you such a worry wart? Can't I be curious?"

"I was just asking," Matthew said quietly.

"Well, so was I," Alfred lied. "But really, what are my faults to you?"

"Well, it's nothing that you do to _me_—" Matthew started. He stopped himself in mid-word and shut his mouth automatically.

"What? What is it?" Alfred demanded quickly.

"D-don't take this the wrong way," Matthew mumbled. "It's just…everyone thinks that I'm _you_ all the time. No one knows who I am because they…well…they all know _you_ and don't bother with me. I just feel sort of…I don't know…put to the side. In some shadowy corner. You know?"

Matthew then began to chuckle in spite of himself. Alfred stayed quiet, resting his chin on his knees, listening. "No, you wouldn't know. Everyone knows who you are. You're famous…or infamous, one of the two. It's just that everyone compares me with you and they never know the _real_ me and all."

"Oh," Alfred said blankly. He wasn't sure how to think of this. He knew that he was quite a colorful personality and that frankly, most people were more attracted to his extroverted nature than to his shy brother, but he had always assumed that Matthew was all right with it. Matthew never complained about it before, and he never targeted his surliness to Alfred because of it, and he never tried to take the spotlight away. Alfred wouldn't have even suspected such a thing before.

_What kind of big brother are you, not even noticing when your baby brother is upset?_

_And it's your fault, isn't it?_

"B-but don't take it the wrong way!" Matthew said quickly, holding up his hands. "It's not your fault. It really isn't. It's just me, I guess. I'm unlucky, that's all."

"Right," Alfred said quickly, grasping on a chance to lighten the burden. "See—Matthew—I can help you out, ya know? Maybe train you to attract some friends—some girls, for that matter—you'll be fine. Don't worry."

"I'm not," Matthew said lightly. "Are you okay?"

"Why are you asking that?"

"You don't look that okay."

"Pfft," Alfred said dismissively, waving a lazy hand. "I'm Alfred Fitzgerald Jones! When will I not be okay? It's probably just the candlelight."

Matthew shrugged, slightly reassured. However, only Arthur was the one who could see the wince flicker across Alfred's face…

It was raining hard. It was strange for Arthur to stand in the middle of the rain, uncovered by any roof or umbrella as the clouds poured buckets down to the earth and, and not get drenched. He didn't even feel the rain on his skin. Even so, it was difficult to see anything through the thick rainfall. Arthur groped around, wondering what he was supposed to be looking for in the first place.

He finally spotted Alfred on the sidewalk near the city park, holding an umbrella over his head. He seemed to be impatient, glancing around him every now and then and checking the time on his cell phone. Arthur sidled under the umbrella with him, staying away from the raindrops. Even though he could not get wet, he found it peculiar not to take shelter from a storm.

"Where is he?" Alfred muttered to himself. Arthur peered over his shoulder to read the time on Alfred's cell phone. It read four fifteen in the afternoon. "Dangit, he was supposed to be here thirty minutes ago!"

Alfred dialed a number on the cell phone and brought it up to his ear. Arthur and Alfred waited for a response, but none came. Alfred groaned and shoved the cell phone back into the overlarge pocket on his hooded sweatshirt.

"Ma-a-an," Alfred complained. "He's never late!" He sighed and pulled out the cell phone again to dial another number. This time, he got himself a response.

"Ludwig Beilschmidt speaking, how may I help you?" a deep voice answered on the other end.

"Yo, Luddy, it's me, Alfred."

"Alfred? What is it?"

"Have you seen Gilbert anywhere?"

"Me? Isn't he always with you?"

"Well, I thought since you were his brother, you'd—I don't know—know where he is right now," said Alfred. "Or have some sort of brother telepathy to pinpoint his location. He was supposed to meet me and he's kinda late."

"I don't know where he is," Ludwig said. "Why don't you call his cell phone?"

"What do you think I've been doing for the past fifteen minutes?" Alfred replied.

"I can't hear you. Speak up!"

"I _said_, what do you think I've been doing for the past fifteen minutes?" repeated Alfred, raising his voice over the thundering rain.

"I don't know!" Ludwig snapped.

"Never mind then! Forget I called," Alfred said quickly. He flipped his cell phone shut and groaned, returning it into his pocket.

"Maybe he noticed how horrible the weather was," Arthur muttered. He knew quite well that Alfred could not hear him, but Arthur couldn't help himself.

"This is ju-u-ust great," Alfred said loudly, wiping specs of rain from his glasses. "God , how long does it take for Ivan to 'borrow' Gilbert anyway?"

Arthur winced at the revelation. So Gilbert had to deal with Ivan first. This did not bode well. Alfred began to walk around the park now, his trainers and socks soaking wet from the many puddles. Arthur tagged along, entertaining himself by holding his hand out from under the umbrella and watching the raindrops fall on his hand but not touch it.

"What the—?" Arthur faced forward when he heard Alfred's remark. Alfred stopped in his tracks abruptly, so Arthur nearly walked into him. Alfred squinted, wiping the fog and raindrops from his lenses. Arthur could see two hazy shapes off of the trail, masked by the trees. Alfred stepped off the path and through the woods.

"Who's there?" Alfred demanded. Arthur heard a sharp gasp and a light chuckle from two respective voices. Alfred quickened his steps as the rustling of twigs and leaves crackled a little way ahead of them. Arthur instinctively grabbed onto the back of Alfred's shirt as to not lose him, but his fingers slipped right off of the cloth.

"So happy that you could join us, Mr. Jones."

Alfred skidded to a halt so that this time Arthur did run straight into him. He stumbled back, rubbing his nose, and peered around Alfred. Ivan and Gilbert were standing in a small clearing, barely sheltered from the rain by the drooping branches covered with leaves above. Ivan was casually smiling at Alfred, holding an umbrella over his head. Gilbert, on the other hand, was pressing his back against a tree, his face gray and his entire body drenched.

"What's going on here?" Alfred demanded. "What are you two doing?"

"Why don't you tell him, Gilbert?" Ivan said softly, not taking his eyes off of Alfred. Alfred turned sharply toward Gilbert, silently demanding an answer. Gilbert looked away, fixing his steely eyes on a twig.

"Nothing," Gilbert said resolutely.

"See?" Ivan said lightly, tilting his head to one side. "There's nothing to worry about."

"What the hell are you two doing, standing in the middle of the rain off the trail?" Alfred said, glaring at Ivan.

"I'd like to ask the same to you," Ivan said sweetly. "Wasn't that what you were doing for the past half an hour?"

Alfred stiffened and Ivan chuckled again. His calculating eyes never left Alfred.

"I'll see you at school, Gilbert," Ivan said before turning on his heel and striding away. Gilbert did not lift his eyes off of the ground. He was rooted stiffly to the spot, clutching his arms and letting the heavy rain fall on him. When Ivan was out of earshot, Alfred hurried to Gilbert.

"What was all that about?" Alfred demanded. "God, you're soaking wet! What were you doing with him here?"

Gilbert didn't answer. Alfred held the umbrella over the both of them to shelter Gilbert as well. Alfred took a better look at Gilbert's face and gaped.

"What happened?" Alfred said, aghast. Arthur glanced at Gilbert's face as well and flinched. There was an ugly bruise on Gilbert's cheekbone.

"Nothing happened," Gilbert repeated hollowly.

"Don't pull that crap on me," Alfred said. He poked Gilbert's cheek and Gilbert jerked away.

"Can we get away from here first, please?" Gilbert said. Alfred hesitated before nodding.

"I'll take you back to my house. How about that? Want that?" Alfred offered.

"I don't know," Gilbert said. "I just want to go home. No one will be home."

Alfred pursed his lips. "You mind if I will be home? Oh, come on!" he exclaimed when Gilbert gave him a wary look. "Something's wrong with you, and I'm not just going to leave you alone when I know something is up!"

"I'm fine. Nothing happened," Gilbert said stubbornly.

"Oh? Why is there mud all over you?"

Gilbert looked down at his black turtleneck sweater that he was wearing. Indeed, there were dark, brown-gray stains splattered on the black.

"I tripped," Gilbert said. "I slipped in the mud and fell. Is that unnatural?"

"Why would you be near mud anyway?" Alfred said suspiciously. "If you were on the trail the whole time, there wouldn't be any mud. The road is stone."

"I just fell over, all right?" Gilbert said hastily, quickening his pace.

"Why aren't you going to tell me the truth, huh?" Alfred demanded. "And it's not just you, is it? Toris is having all these nervous breakdowns and he won't tell me what's up. And you're getting yourself beaten up but won't say what's happening to you. And Elizaveta, and Feliks, and everyone else! It's like you guys shut yourselves away from the rest of us with some iron curtain!"

"There's nothing wrong with that!" Gilbert growled.

"So there is something going on!" Alfred confirmed. "You aren't denying anything!"

Gilbert opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. He gritted his teeth. "Just drop it, Alfred."

"It's Ivan, isn't it?" Alfred said. "He's doing something to all of you. Does he beat you up a lot? Is that how you got that?" He pointed to Gilbert's cheek. "And that bruise on your neck a while ago…that was from him too, wasn't it?"

"Stop it," Gilbert said, backing away.

"Why are you letting him beat you up and covering up for him?" Alfred said incredulously.

"I'm not letting him!" Gilbert snapped. "All right? I'm not submitting! I won't!"

Alfred stepped back, raising his eyebrows in surprise. "I'm not saying you're submitting! Gilbert, what the hell is he doing to you, though?"

Gilbert stared at Alfred for a long time. "If I tell you, do you promise not to do anything about it?"

"What?" Alfred said faintly.

"If I tell you, can you act as if you never knew or suspected anything?" Gilbert said urgently.

"Hell no!" Alfred said harshly. "Hey!" He grabbed Gilbert's shoulder before the latter could get away. "Why does it make a difference?"

"Because I don't want you getting roped into anything!" Gilbert snapped. "Happy?"

"Yes! I mean, no!" Alfred said quickly. "Getting roped into what? And why? HEY!" Gilbert wanted to escape from Alfred's questions, but Alfred grabbed Gilbert's shoulder and dragged him back. He had been more forceful than he had intended and accidentally pulled Gilbert to the ground. "Oh shit! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine! I've always been fine, so you don't have to worry about me!" Gilbert said rashly. He pushed himself off the ground, dirt and rainwater clinging on him.

"I'm sorry, Gilbo," Alfred said. "Wait up!" Gilbert had already hurried away before Alfred spoke, and Alfred had to chase after him. "Look, man, I'm not trying to insult you or anything! Serious! I'm just worried about you!"

"There isn't anything you need to worry about," Gilbert said through gritted teeth. He was walking faster than Alfred so that he would not be covered by the umbrella. He let the heavy rain soak him.

"Why won't you be honest with me?" Alfred said. "Aren't we friends?"

Gilbert clenched his teeth, his steps growing quicker and stiffer. Alfred tentatively put a hand on his shoulder, and this time Gilbert did not fight it off.

"Let's just get you back home and clean you up, okay?" Alfred said. "Can I at least do that for you?"

Alfred would have followed Gilbert home even if Gilbert point-blank refused, which he did. Alfred was a fighter though; 'no' was never in his vocabulary and he dogged Gilbert's footsteps back to Gilbert's home. Gilbert gave up trying to stop him and remained silent the entire way there, and this time Alfred did not try to force any answer out of him.

When Alfred and Gilbert finally reached the Beilschmidt residence, the rain finally lessened to a feeble drizzle. Nevertheless, Gilbert was still soaking wet and was now shivering in the cold, but refused Alfred's jacket even when Alfred shoved it onto him. Arthur couldn't help but shake his head sadly at Gilbert's stubborn pride.

Gilbert fumbled to take the house key out of his pants pocket and unlock the front door. When the door finally gave way he fell right through the doorway, nearly crashing onto the hard wood floor. Alfred quickly grabbed his arm before he fell.

"Careful there!" Alfred said. Gilbert regained his balance, rainwater dripping from his clothes and collecting into little puddles on the floor. "Come on, go shower up. I'll take care of this."

"I can do it myself," Gilbert said monotonously.

"Don't be so stupid and stubborn!" Alfred ordered.

"Hark who's talking!" Gilbert shot back. Alfred dragged Gilbert up the stairs and shoved him toward the bathroom, slamming the door shut right afterward. Gilbert's voice was muffled as he protested, but Alfred held the doorknob tight to keep Gilbert inside. When Alfred finally heard the bathwater running, he dusted his hands off as if he just finished a grueling task.

But Alfred was still not at ease. What had Ivan done to Gilbert? What was going on between Braginski and all the others? He sat on the floor with his back against the door, frowning. Arthur could practically read Alfred's emotions like an open book.

After a while, when the running water stopped from inside the bathroom, Alfred rapped his knuckles against the door.

"Yo, Gil," Alfred said. "Let me in, won't you?"

Gilbert didn't reply. Alfred rapped harder, raising his voice over the bathroom fan. "Gilbert, let me in, I want to talk to you."

"No," Gilbert said on the other side.

"What? Why not? Gilbert, come on!" Alfred protested, banging his fist on the door. "You can't avoid me forever!"

"No, that's not it," Gilbert said. "When you shoved me in the bathroom, you sort of forgot to give me any clothes."

"Oh. Right," Alfred said lamely. "I'll get them for you."

"Don't bother," Gilbert muttered. He wrapped a dark blue towel around his waist and left the bathroom to the bedroom. Alfred followed him inside.

"Do you mind?" Gilbert said monotonously as he tugged open his drawers and pulled out some clothes. Arthur promptly turned to face the wall.

"What?" Alfred said blankly. Arthur slapped his forehead.

"Do you mind that I'm about to strip in front of you to put on my clothes?" Gilbert said.

"Oh yeah!" Alfred quickly spun around to face the other direction. Gilbert sighed and pulled on his clothes.

"So…feeling better?" Alfred said feebly.

"There's no need to," Gilbert said stubbornly.

"Your pride could take a bit of wearing down, kid," Alfred said.

"Look who's talking," Gilbert grunted, wriggling his arms through his jacket sleeves. Alfred turned around reproachfully. Arthur directed his gaze back to the two teenagers now that Gilbert was fully clothed. He sat on Gilbert's canvas chair, watching the scene.

"Hey! I'm trying to be the good guy here, and you're just making things even harder!"

"There's nothing to be a good guy for!" Gilbert protested. "I'm capable of dealing with any of my problems on my own!"

"Fine. I don't have to concern myself with _you_," Alfred said harshly, "but at least help me help the _others_. You aren't the only one dealing shit with Braginski. You know…" he began pacing around the room, feigning innocence as he twirled a mechanical pencil from Gilbert's desk between his fingers. "Feliks, Toris…" He let the pencil fall back onto Gilbert's desk, "Elizaveta."

Gilbert froze, and Alfred immediately knew he had jackpot. He smirked to himself before casually stretching his arms over his head and letting out a content sigh.

"I could help her from getting hurt and all like what happens to you, you know," Alfred said naturally. "I mean, it would suck if a girl like her would have to be subjected to whatever is going on with you."

"It's because I tried to help that I'm in this situation, all right?" Gilbert snapped. "I'm not letting anyone else get dragged into this!"

Alfred lifted his head curiously, glancing at Gilbert from the sides of his eyes. Gilbert was glaring at him, his fists clenched. Alfred turned toward him.

"Does Luddy know anything about this, at least?" asked Alfred.

"Of course not," Gilbert said, affronted.

"Well, maybe he will soon," Alfred said dangerously. Gilbert's eyes widened.

"You damn blackmailer," Gilbert said through gritted teeth. Alfred shrugged good-naturedly. "You already know, don't you? You know what's going on, or at least the main idea. Why do you have to force it out of my mouth?"

"I want you to tell me with your own words!" Alfred said. "I want to know that you would at least tell me _something_!"

Gilbert set his jaw. "I didn't keep quiet about this because I didn't trust you," he said lowly.

"What, are you trying to protect me?" Alfred snorted. "I don't need protecting. I can handle it on my own."

Gilbert clenched his teeth. He stared at Alfred for a moment before sinking onto his bed.

"Braginski harasses us. There. I said it," Gilbert said in a dead tone.

"Is 'harassment' a bit of an understatement?" Alfred said.

"I don't know," Gilbert mumbled.

Alfred sat down on the bed next to Gilbert. "That bruise I saw on your neck a while ago. That was from him, wasn't it?" He lied down on his side while Gilbert lied on his back. He watched Gilbert's face intently. "He was messing with Eliza and Toris in the city that one day and when you tried to see what's going on, he hurt you, didn't he?"

"He doesn't physically abuse us all the time," Gilbert said indignantly, as if trying to protect whatever pride he had left. "Only when we get too mouthy."

"And knowing you, that was probably the case a lot," said Alfred. Gilbert furrowed his eyebrows. "And today? In the park?"

"It was nothing," Gilbert said stoutly.

"You were as white as sheets, Gil, and that bruise is still there."

"So?"

"He wasn't…molesting you or anything—?"

"Mein Gott, Alfred! Don't you think I'd speak up a little sooner if that was the case?" Gilbert protested.

"Could've fooled me, considering you kept mum for all this time," Alfred argued.

"That's different," Gilbert said quickly. "He said he'd hurt West if I tried anything. Or Eliza. Or you. Hell, he threatened to hurt anybody else if I ratted him out." He crossed his arms across his chest. "I'm not letting anyone have to deal with Braginski just because I'm too much of a pansy to take it in myself. That is, until I was faced with blackmail." He turned his face and glared at Alfred.

Alfred frowned and propped his head up by his elbow. So Gilbert submitted to Braginski's will just because he didn't want anyone else to get hurt? As morbid as the fact was, Alfred couldn't help but revere it with awe and curiosity. It sounded redemptive—exactly what he had been seeking.

"You aren't a pansy," Alfred assured Gilbert. "Seriously, I don't think that at all."

"You can't tell anyone about it," Gilbert said in a low voice.

"Are you kidding me?" Alfred exclaimed. "I can't just walk out of this house and pretend I didn't hear that the Braginski bastard is abusing my best friend!"

Gilbert sat up immediately, his face shocked. "Dammit, Alfred, do you _want_ to get yourself killed? What are you going to do, tell on him? You can't. He never does his little tricks inside school, so they can't technically do anything. And he isn't doing anything illegal."

"Maybe I won't tell on him, but I sure as hell am not letting him off the hook," Alfred said feverishly. The plan was so simple and yet so foolproof. Braginski, the bully. Braginski, the tyrant of the school. Braginski, the devil of all teenagers that terrorized his class. Who would be more welcomed and respected than someone who freed them from Braginski's rule and defied his abuse? Surely…surely all memories of Alfred's previous treatment of Makisig would be erased then. He would no longer be remembered as the cruel and insensitive tormentor (_like that bastard Braginski_) but instead as the hero of the school. The good guy all along.

"I'm going to fight him," Alfred said confidently. "Hear me out!" he said quickly when Gilbert opened his mouth to protest. He sat up. "I'm not weak. I can take him in a fight anytime. But that's not the only thing. I am going to stop him from pulling all that shit. I'm going to make him pay."

"You're insane," Gilbert said. Arthur could tell what was going through Gilbert's head right now. Gilbert had tried so hard to keep anyone including Alfred from getting hurt by Ivan and now Alfred was marching right into Ivan's clutches. Counter-productivity at its best.

"This is going to work," Alfred said excitedly. "I'm going to make things right." Was he really talking about Braginski, or more about his inner guilt? "I'm going to save you all."

And as the colors of the wind rushed around him like a hurricane and the memories began to morph, Arthur dreaded what was to come, for he could now predict what would happen after this…


	14. Chapter 14

**Happy Chinese New Year, everyone~!**

* * *

**"Stop right there. That's exactly where I lost it.****  
See that line, well I never should have crossed it.  
Stop right there. Well I never should have said that  
****It's the very moment that  
****I wish that I could take back…"**

Arthur opened one eye to make sure that he was still not in the middle of transition. He found himself in the school again, and he couldn't help but feel very annoyed at this. He was already forced to see the inside of this building five times a week. Spending his entire Friday night witnessing it over and over again began to tire him. This opinion immediately changed when he saw Gilbert and Alfred in the hallway. Alfred was striding confidently toward wherever he was heading to while Gilbert was arguing.

"I'm telling you, you won't make a difference!" Gilbert snapped. He still sported the mottled bruise on his cheek. "Eliza tried stopping it. I tried stopping it. Look where it has landed us!"

"I'm different," Alfred said stubbornly.

"How so?" demanded Gilbert.

"Because I am," Alfred said simply. "He'll be in our lunch period, right? Good; that's when all the others will be there too. They'll see."

"Who are 'they?'" Gilbert asked.

"Everyone," Alfred said. "Enough people."

"Why do you want that?"

"Uh—to—so that everyone can see that Ivan Braginski will no longer terrorize the student body," Alfred said lamely. "Unite them all against a common enemy. Or something." Arthur could tell very well that Alfred was about to say something else.

"Are you asking for your own suicide?" Gilbert growled. "You think this is as easy as just speaking up?"

"Yes," Alfred said. "I mean, if everyone seems me denounce Braginski, then if he messes with me they'll know right? And they'll know if I mess him back. No one will be ignorant." His voice crackled with excitement.

"If you die, Alfred Fitzgerald Jones, I will kill you."

"Noted. C'mon, Braginski isn't going to wait for us," Alfred said before hurrying down the hallway. Gilbert let out a shout before dashing in front of Alfred.

"You seriously must be able to think up of a better idea than this," Gilbert said desperately. "Don't be an idiot."

"I'm just doing what you did!" Alfred protested.

"Yeah—like I said—look where it landed me," said Gilbert.

"Then I'll tell a teacher," Alfred said ironically.

"I told you, he doesn't do crap in the school. What the heck can they do about it?" Gilbert argued.

"Exactly! Only I can fix this!" Alfred declared. "Step aside, Mr. Beilschmidt."

Gilbert lifted an eyebrow sceptically. "What makes you so different?"

"I'm me," Alfred said shortly before marching forward. Before Gilbert could react, Alfred shouted loudly.

"HEY, BRAGINSKI!" Alfred hollered. Gilbert looked as if Alfred had suddenly set himself on fire.

The common room suddenly hushed at Alfred's yell. The students abandoned any thought of lunch, staring curiously at the bespectacled blond at the front of the commons. Alfred spotted Ivan's lunch table and plastered an expression on his face that seemed like a mixture between a determined glare and a grin. He strode towards it without hesitation. Gilbert groaned before following him. The students resumed to their lunches, though they kept their voices lowered and they gave sidelong glances at Alfred and Ivan.

Ivan stood from his chair, smiling serenely at Alfred and Gilbert. He sat with two other girls that Arthur recognized but did not know. When Alfred approached him, Ivan spread out his arms.

"Why, Alfred!" Ivan said happily. "I never thought you'd come visit me!"

"I'm not here for a sweet lil' chit-chat," Alfred declared. "I've got a bone to pick with you."

Ivan raised his eyebrows before turning curiously to Gilbert. Gilbert stepped up to stand beside Alfred, his red eyes resentful.

"I see," Ivan said softly. "Well, let us be civilized, at least. Take a seat."

"No," Alfred said immediately. "This isn't some little tea party conversation." He took in a deep breath. "Why the hell are you hurting my friends?"

"What do you mean?" Ivan said lightly.

"Don't play stupid!" Alfred said hotly. Nearby tables were glancing wonderingly at Alfred and Ivan now. "I know that you've been bullying people lately, and I won't stand for it!"

"Do you now?" Ivan said calmly, fixing his gaze on Gilbert. Gilbert gritted his teeth. "And who told you this rumour?"

"It's not a rumour because it's true!" Alfred snapped. Arthur could tell by the way Alfred's eyes would give brief sidelong glimpses around him that he knew people were watching him. "And I won't stand for it!"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ivan said blithely. "I haven't bullied anyone. I would never do that to my _friends_." Gilbert winced slightly at the word. Alfred looked frustrated at Ivan's refusal to own up to his actions.

"You call them your friends?" Alfred said incredulously. "You've practically enslaved them! You hurt them and you think they are all dandy with you but in truth everyone hates you!"

Immediately, the entire cafeteria hushed. The statement certainly struck a nerve for Ivan. His innocent expression suddenly darkened into bitter resentment. Arthur saw the shadows in Ivan's eyes and couldn't help but think that if Alfred had not got to it first, Ivan would have certainly killed Alfred for him.

"You've got a lot of nerve," Ivan said softly, "but absolutely no brains or strength to back it up."

"I'm not afraid of you!" Alfred said defiantly.

_Famous last words, _Arthur thought to himself.

"Are you putting me up to a challenge, Jones?" Ivan demanded sharply.

Alfred seemed surprised at the accusation before furrowing his eyebrows in determination. "Yeah! Yeah I am! And I'm going to stop you once and for all!"

Ivan narrowed his violet eyes. Gilbert warily reached out and put a hand on Alfred's shoulder as if so that he could quickly pull Alfred away from Ivan's wrath if Ivan struck. A cold smile crept onto Ivan's lips.

"I'd really like to see you try," Ivan said in a light but dangerous voice.

"Oh, I will."

The cafeteria melted from view, spinning and rearranging into a new scene all around Arthur. Out of curiosity, Arthur reached a hand out to the swirling colours, wondering if they had any feeling. It felt like rushing wind against his skin.

"Hey, Alfred."

The scene enfolded to Toris and Alfred in an unfamiliar living room, working on a school project. Alfred was lounging upside down on the couch, snipping construction paper with a pair of scissors. Toris was typing on his laptop, his eyebrows furrowed.

"What?" Alfred said lazily, putting the scissors on the coffee table.

"Were you the one who put the manure in Ivan's car trunk today?" Toris asked.

Alfred laughed. "Who else?" He saw Toris's look of concern and groaned. "Aw, what of it?"

"Well, it certainly explains why he was so livid today," Toris mumbled, not taking his eyes off his research.

"Whoa, he didn't start accusing you of it, did he?" Alfred demanded.

"No. He knew it was you," Toris said softly. "Only you would do something like that."

Alfred snorted and sat up straight. "Why do you say that?"

"You seem to pull quite a couple pranks on Ivan," Toris said calmly, turning to the blank poster rolled out on the carpet. He took one of the squares of construction paper that Alfred cut out and slathered glue on one side. "Why?"

"Didn't you know?" Alfred said. "I'm waging war against him. I'm going to get revenge on him."

"I know that," Toris said quietly, carefully gluing the orange square onto the corner of the poster. "But..your techniques..."

"What about them?" Alfred said.

"Well...how is stinking up his car supposed to...uh...stop him from being—you know—uh—" Toris struggled with words, wondering if there was any possible way to say what was on his mind without using extremely derogatory words. "...bullying?"

Alfred blinked. "Well, what do you want me to do? Bully him back and be a hypocrite?" He barely suppressed a wince at his own words.

"No, that's not it," Toris said quickly. "But—I don't know—annoying him won't make him a better person or recant his actions or anything—at least I don't think..."

"You just wait for it, Toris," Alfred said resolutely, sitting Indian-style on the couch. "I'll set things straight. Is he still bothering you?"

"Um..." Toris busied himself by pasting more paper on the poster board.

"You can tell me," Alfred insisted. "Even if he's threatening you not to. I'll get him back."

"Well, it's—nothing," Toris said lamely. "Just...think things through, all right? Before you do them?"

"He didn't make you shovel out the manure from his car, did he?" Alfred said worriedly.

"No, but I heard that the manure is out of his car right now, so someone must have," Toris said bluntly. "And I rather doubt that it was Ivan's doing. But don't overdo it, won't you? Can't you take a Mahatma Gahndi approach to this and do things peacefully without launching attacks on him?"

"Are you defending him?" Alfred asked incredulously.

"No, I'm not," Toris said. "It just makes me feel that...you're adding gasoline to the fire. It might make him angrier and less willing to make peace, you know?"

"I've got this under control, Toris. Don't worry about it," Alfred said dismissively. He leaned forward and pointed at the laptop. "Can I borrow that for a sec?"

"Sure, sure," Toris said tiredly. Alfred took the laptop and loaded up his Facebook page. After combing through his notifications (several of them were posts on his wall from classmates congratulating him for stinking up Braginski's car), he suddenly remembered something. As Arthur sat next to Alfred on the couch and watched the laptop screen, Alfred quickly typed up Makisig Patanindagat's name on the Search bar.

"Hey, Toris," Alfred said. Toris looked up from the poster. "Are you friends with Makisig on Facebook?"

"I don't have a Facebook page," Toris said. "Why?"

"No reason," Alfred said simply. He found Makisig's account and hesitated. It had been several weeks since Makisig had moved out and he hadn't had any contact with him since. Alfred took in a deep breath. He had started his path to redemption already; this was the opportune moment to right wrongs.

He clicked the 'Send Friend Request' button and typed a small message to accompany it. Many times he stopped to run the words through his head or erase entire sentences. Finally, he settled with a very brief greeting:

_Hey Makisig, how's school? Listen, can we talk? I'm sorry about all that stuff I've done before. _

Arthur couldn't help but think that if he was in Makisig's shoes, he would automatically click on the 'Do Not Confirm' button. But it didn't matter, because Alfred clicked 'Send' and left the Facebook page.

"So how would _you _deal with Braginski if you were in my shoes, anyway?" Alfred said casually, closing the laptop.

Toris shrugged, writing on the top of the poster with a blue marker. "If I had any idea, I wouldn't be in this situation, would I?"

"I guess," Alfred mumbled. He stretched his arms over his head. "I'm going to make sure he wishes he never messed with any of you."

Toris nodded wordlessly, but Arthur did not miss the flicker of doubt on his face before the scene changed once more.

But as more and more memories passed before Arthur's eyes, he doubted Alfred's credibility. Arthur watched uncomfortably as Alfred got into fistfights with Ivan, rallied the other students against Ivan, and making pranks. On the other hand, Ivan launched attacks as well, though he retaliated not in the form of pranks but with anger. The more Alfred fought back, the popular he seemed to be. Arthur wasn't sure why, but it sickened him.

But wasn't Alfred doing all this to 'help humanity' or whatever he said? While Alfred was waging his war, Arthur didn't see him even interact with any of Ivan's victims…

"Hey! HEY!"

Arthur jerked in surprise at the yell. He spun around, finding himself in that all too familiar school building once more. To his surprise, there was a large mob conglomerating in the middle of the hallway. A blur of colour rushed past Arthur and he instinctively dodged to the side. Alfred strode confidently toward the crowd, shouting at someone that Arthur could not see. Some of the people in the crowd turned toward Alfred, a mixture of surprise and excitement on their faces as they parted to let Alfred through. Arthur quickly followed and saw that Ivan and Raivis were in the middle of the crowd. Raivis was trembling terribly and Ivan, for the first time Arthur had ever seen, seemed livid.

"Leave the kid alone, Braginski!" Alfred said confidently. Arthur frowned to himself. He wasn't sure why, but Alfred spoke in a way that seemed nearly scripted. "Why don't you pick on someone your own size?"

"I don't want to deal with your childishness, Jones," Iv an said dangerously. "I suggest you keep your snotty nose out of other people's business and move on with your life."

"I think not!" Alfred exclaimed. Some of the students surrounding them whooped in support of Alfred, and Arthur thought that Alfred nearly glowed. "If you're going to lay another finger on a student again, I'll—"

"What?" Ivan demanded harshly. "What will you do? Another immature prank? God knows I don't have enough toilet paper all over my car."

"That's not what I was going to say," Alfred said, narrowing his eyes. "If you hurt anyone else, I'm going to fight you!"

"Fistfight!" a loud voice cried out excitedly from the crowd. Alfred grinned confidently as the surrounding students chanted in expectations of a fight. Ivan, on the other hand, looked murderous.

"I'm not playing your silly games anymore, Jones," Ivan snapped. "Stop trying to shove your way into things you don't belong in. This is mine to deal with, and you have nothing to do with it."

"I'm not leaving until I know that you are stopped!" Alfred declared.

"Stopped from _what_, may I ask?" Ivan demanded. Arthur gulped; Ivan looked like he had every intention to shove his fist into Alfred's teeth.

"From being an asshole!" Alfred shouted. The other students cheered and whistled in agreement. Ivan looked shocked and, if Arthur noticed correctly, hurt.

"What are you talking about?" Ivan said in a strange voice.

"Come on, Braginski," Alfred said bluntly. "You don't think that everyone in the world loves you, do you? You may think you have all these friends and all, but in truth, everyone just thinks that you're a son of a bitch!"

It was then that Arthur had noticed that Lovino was in the crowd with a shocked glare on his face. However, his glower was not directed at Ivan, who was now caught in the circle of ridicule, but at Alfred the ringleader.

"So why don't you just leave the whole school alone, considering none of us want you around anyway?" Alfred shot at Ivan. Even though Arthur was not existent in this scene, he still felt a burning shame watching the spectacle.

Ivan's eyes suddenly hardened into poisonous bitterness. Arthur felt his blood run cold at the sight of it. Without speaking another word, Ivan spun on his heel and tore from the crowd without casting a second glance back. Alfred let out a cry of victory and the other students cheered in response, rushing over to pat Alfred on the back and cheer him on. Arthur couldn't help but watch Ivan's retreating back, feeling his heart sink with disappointment at how low his fellow peers had sunk. Now in this generation, it seemed that tact and the famous Golden Rule were now tarnished and tossed into the rubbish bin.

However, while Alfred was washed over with support and praises from his classmates and slowly making his way to the crowded cafeteria where he would once again be overdosed with popularity and praise, Lovino hung back, detached from the crowd. He frowned at Alfred's back before casting a quick glance toward where Ivan had once been before darting off to another direction. Arthur thought that the hallway was empty until a voice perked up from behind him.

"Raivis. Oi, Raivis."

Gilbert jogged over to Raivis's side. Arthur had forgotten that Raivis was left in the hallway, still trembling from the ordeal. Gilbert patted Raivis on the shoulder.

"Hey. You okay?"

"Y-yeah," Raivis nodded. "I'm—I'm fine."

"What did Braginski do to you?" Gilbert asked.

"It was—well—he just got really mad and I d-don't know why, but Alfred—he stepped in before anything really h-happened," Raivis said softly.

"Oh," Gilbert said, though there was something in his voice that seemed rather stiff. He looked around at the empty hallway. "Where is Alfred, anyway?"

"He left," Raivis mumbled. Gilbert pressed his lips into a thin line.

"You sure you're okay, kid?" he asked.

"I am...yes, I am," Raivis stuttered. "Don't worry about me...t-thanks."

Gilbert gave Raivis a brief pat on the shoulder before turning toward the direction of the cafeteria. Arthur could hear the faint rumble of the voices during lunch time, celebrating Alfred. Gilbert narrowed his eyes before bidding Raivis goodbye and left.

Arthur was about to follow Gilbert until time changed around him once more. He was growing more and more impatient. What did any of this have to do with why Alfred killed himself? It didn't make sense to Arthur, but it wasn't like he could fast forward or get out of this mess. He found himself back in Alfred's home. Matthew and Alfred were in the living room. Alfred was playing a video game on the television set while Matthew watched, curled under a fleece blanket. Arthur took a glance out the window and saw to his surprise that it was snowing. Time must have passed since that scene with Toris and when Alfred confronted Ivan.

"...and then I was like, 'Everyone hates your guts, you asshole!' to Braginski and everyone was cheering me on like I was the star rugby player," Alfred said, as he swung around his video game console. "I was this close to beating him up, and I would have if he didn't run off with his tail between his legs."

"When was this?" Matthew asked quietly.

"During lunchtime," Alfred said casually. "You should have seen it, Mattie!"

"Why were you even getting in a fight with him?" asked Matthew, drawing the blanket closer.

"He was messing with Eduard, or someone," Alfred said. Arthur raised his eyebrows with disbelief. Alfred had already forgotten that it was Raivis he was rescuing, not Eduard. "I was the talk of the school this afternoon! Didn't you know about it?"

"I did know about it," Matthew said, shrugging. "Well, not the details."

"Oh? What did you hear?" Alfred asked eagerly, whipping the console around in the air to control the game.

"Well, I didn't hear much...as much as I saw," Matthew said.

"What? I thought you said you didn't see the whole event," Alfred said, frowning.

"I didn't see that," agreed Matthew. "But…well, I ran into Ivan on the way out of lunch."

"Oh shit," Alfred said deadpanned, pausing in his game. "He didn't do anything to you, did he?"

"No," Matthew mumbled. "I don't know if he noticed me. He seemed blinded by anger."

"Angry because of me?" Alfred asked.

"Well, I wouldn't know any other reason," Matthew said. He bit his lip nervously before finally saying what was on his mind. "Don't you think…couldn't you possibly turn it down a little?"

"The game? It isn't that loud," Alfred pointed out.

"No, I didn't mean that," Matthew said, shaking his head. "I mean…your little saving-people-thing."

"What are you talking about?" Alfred said, surprised.

"I don't mean that you should stop defending people," Matthew said quickly. "I mean, that's good and all, but I mean your um…techniques."

"What's wrong with my techniques?" Alfred demanded, swiping the virtual alien with his light sabre.

"You're sort of…mean," Matthew said softly. "I mean, it isn't exactly—you know—tactful if you insult people like that."

"You're standing up for Braginski?" Alfred said incredulously.

"I'm not standing up for him, I just mean in general!" Matthew contradicted. "And it's not just because it's the right thing to do! What if Braginski gets so mad at you that he beats you up?"

Alfred let out a boisterous laugh. "He can't lay a finger on me!"

Matthew bit his lip anxiously. "It makes me uncomfortable too."

"Huh?" Alfred cast a disbelieving glance at his brother. "What are you so nervous about?"

"It's—well—you see—" Matthew started to say. He sighed and shook his head. "It doesn't seem like it's you. You're different when you're around him. You get…nastier."

"Geez, Mattie, I'm not a nasty person!" Alfred protested, his voice fading and the scene becoming hazy as it was about to change. "You think too much. Come on. Relax. I've got this in the bag."

Arthur then found himself in an unfamiliar room. He looked around, noting the advent wreaths with the coloured candles around the room and the tinsel decorating the mantelpiece. Alfred was in his kitchen, nibbling on gingerbread cookies while searching the internet on his laptop.

Alfred searched up the Facebook page on the internet while Arthur pulled up a chair next to Alfred and sat down next to him. When the Facebook page loaded, it notified Alfred that he had one private message waiting for him. Alfred excitedly clicked the link, only to find out that the message was from Makisig.

Alfred frowned, trying to remember if Makisig ever accepted his friend request after all these months. Concluding that Makisig never did in his memory, he warily went on to read the response:

_I don't get it._

_For nearly a year and a half, you made fun of my accent, food, clothes, language, country, everything. And now you suddenly realize that maybe it wasn't that great of an idea after all?_

_There are days when I just wake up in the morning and my first action is to hate you after remembering everything you did to me. _

_Part of me wants to just forget about all that, now that I don't have to suffer your presence anymore, but the other part of me doesn't want to let you off the hook all that easily._

_Don't you dare say that you were just 'playing' with me or you were 'messing' with me. That sure as hell won't justify what you did; in fact, you'll seem more like an asshole than you already are. _

_Please leave me alone. Do what you should have done for the past two years._

Arthur backed away from the computer, a little embarrassed that he read such a private message. He watched Alfred hide his hands in his face in resign. His attempt to cleanse himself of wrongdoings had failed.

Suddenly, Arthur was lost on an icy road, his feet slipping on the slick and biting ice. He rubbed his arms vigorously, nipped by the awful cold that he was left unprotected against. What in the world was he doing in the middle of the road in the middle of winter?

He soon saw Alfred walking down the sidewalk, the snow reaching up to his calves and soaking his jeans. Arthur gingerly made his way toward Alfred, and when he stepped into the snow, he expected to sink right through the crystalline flakes. Instead, his feet remained on the icy surface without leaving a single mark.

"Oi! Hey! Hey, Lovino!"Alfred suddenly shouted. Arthur jumped at the unexpected ejaculation and turned his head to see Lovino in the front yard of one of the houses in the neighbourhood. Lovino jumped nearly two feet with surprise and spun around, a look of shock on his face. When he saw Alfred making his way toward him, Lovino scowled and devoted every ounce of his attention to the snowman he was building directly in front of a window.

"What's up?" Alfred said breezily, ruining the perfect snow with his footprints.

"What do you want?" Lovino grumbled, shoving a gnarled and crooked stick into the snowman's abdomen.

"Can't you say a simple hello to me?" Alfred said. He frowned. "Why isn't the snowman facing forward? Instead of, you know, the window."

"Leave me and my work alone," Lovino snapped, picking an ugly stick from the ground and fashioning it onto the snowman. With its new woody limbs, the snowman looked like it was hovering over its pray, ready to pounce.

"And why is your snowman's face...well, not happy?" Alfred asked, pointing at the snowman's snarl made of pebbles and sticks.

"Is that a crime or something?" growled Lovino. He picked up a bottle of tomato juice from the ground and took a sip. "What do you want?"

"I was just dropping by," Alfred said. He raised his eyebrows. "Wait—this isn't your house."

"So what?" Lovino said callously.

"Why are you making a snowman in someone else's yard?" asked Alfred. "In fact—isn't this Antonio's house?"

Lovino rolled his eyes. "What do you want, Jones?"

"Geez, why so cold?" Alfred complained. "All week you've been avoiding me like the plague and when I do get a chance to talk to you, you run away and hide behind Antonio!"

"I don't hide behind that idiot!" Lovino protested, his cheeks growing pink. "You're just an asshole, that's all, you bastard!"

"Why?" Alfred demanded, wincing when Lovino snapped at him.

"Nothing," Lovino said sourly, drinking another gulp of tomato juice.

"Don't give me that, Vargas!" Alfred groaned. "Why can't you just tell me what's up? Are you mad at me or something?"

"I don't know," Lovino mumbled. Alfred pursed his lips and lowered his voice.

"So...it's possible that you _are_ mad at me?" Alfred said tentatively.

"Gee whiz, why do you care?" Lovino demanded. He unscrewed the cap from his bottle of tomato juice and poured it all over the snowman, dyeing the snow crimson like blood. Arthur couldn't help but feel sympathetic toward Antonio when he would draw open the curtains to his window and come face to face with the mutilated snowman zombie that Lovino had so kindly left him.

"I want to know what others think of me, that's all!" Alfred said.

"Oh, you want to know how super amazing you are?" Lovino said hotly. "Or how you're such a role model for the whole school?"

"Well—I don't know about that," Alfred stuttered. "You are mad at me, aren't you?"

"I'm not mad at you! You're just an asshole!" Lovino exclaimed. "I mean, you're a pretty hypocritical asshole!"

"What?" Alfred said, aghast. "How am I a hypocrite?"

Lovino's face turned into a very bright shade of red. He shoved his hands into his pockets and mumbled something inaudible.

"Don't you 'never mind' me! Why am I a hypocrite?" Alfred demanded sharply. Arthur could sense the slight fear pricking his voice.

"You said you were going to be the super amazing hero of the school to make it a better place, didn't you?" Lovino said so heatedly that Arthur was almost certain that his voice alone made the snowman shrivel. "How the hell are you achieving that when you're being a bully yourself?"

"I'm not a bully!" Alfred cried. A flash of fear flickered across his blue eyes, and Arthur knew he was thinking about Makisig.

"Wow, Jones, I'm not an idiot. I know a jerk attitude when I see one," Lovino shot at him.

"Are you talking about Makisig?" Alfred demanded nervously. "Because if that's the case, I'll have you know that I apologized to him!" Even though Makisig never accepted the apology, it was the thought that counted, wasn't it?

"No, but don't think that I've forgotten about that," Lovino said harshly. "I'm talking about—about Braginski."

"...oh," Alfred said awkwardly. He shifted uncomfortably; did Lovino know that Alfred made Ivan cry? "What of it?"

" You pretty much told him that everyone wants him to die and he's the most hated kid in school," Lovino said coldly. "I don't know about you, but I don't think that's the best way to make the school a better place if you're being a bully to fight a bully."

"I wasn't trying to be a bully," Alfred argued, his fists clenched.

"Hard to believe!" Lovino retorted. "I was there when you had your little show, and for a moment I forgot who was being the real bully. You stoop pretty low!"

"Shut it!" Alfred automatically said, his voice strained with discomfort. "I was just trying to stop him from messing with people, that's all!"

"But _you're_ messing with people!" Lovino yelled. "How does that make you any better?"

"I'm not—that's just—I never meant to be a bully!" Alfred stammered. Arthur couldn't help but remember that this was not the first time Alfred said this.

"Yeah, then next time you stand up for someone, you don't have to completely crush the other person in the process. Makes you seem pretty hypocritical, you know?"

"Is that why you've been avoiding me?" Alfred said, his voice falteringly. "Wait—does everyone think this? Or is it just you?"

"I don't know!" Lovino said brashly. "All I know is that you walk around with some holier-than-thou attitude when in the end you're as genuine as a Puritan!"

"I'm not a bully!" Alfred said desperately, remembering his old fears. "I'm not, I swear!"

"You sure do one hell of a job trying to prove it," Lovino said before trudging out of the yard, leaving an air of burning indignation behind. Alfred spun around, opening his mouth to retort, but no words came out. He hesitated, his face changing from anger to nervous fear.

_Am I really a hypocrite?_

Alfred gulped, suddenly very aware of his loneliness. He spun around on the spot, searching desperately for anyone else. For a moment his eyes locked directly into Arthur's, and Arthur almost expected Alfred to jump back in surprise at the sight of him and speak to him, but instead Alfred turned away from the invisible spot, leaving Arthur slightly crestfallen.

_But all I wanted was to help._

_Not be another bully._

_Not again._

Arthur heard the whooshing wind spinning in his ears and he knew what to expect. He closed his eyes and let the time whiz by him without protest.

"…a little different now," Alfred's voice said quietly. He was sitting outside of the school on a wooden bench, his knees drawn to his chest. Toris was pacing on the pavement in front of him, wrapped in a yarn scarf and sometimes slipping in the snow.

"Is Braginski still giving you problems?" Alfred asked Toris.

"Um…I'm fine," Toris mumbled, glancing around the school courtyard.

"I haven't seen you around lately," commented Alfred. "He hasn't forced you to tag along with him, has he?"

"No," Toris admitted quietly. "I've been…uh, I've been with Feliks lately."

"Feliks? Is he that short kid that shakes all the time?" Alfred asked.

"No, he's the blond guy with the barrettes." Gilbert suddenly appeared behind Alfred, his eyes hardened and face grim. "Raivis is the short one. You know, the kid you stopped Braginski from messing with last Tuesday?"

"Oh," Alfred said blankly. "I knew that."

"Of course you did," Gilbert said coldly. At that moment, Toris's phone started to ring. He dug into his rucksack for it and pressed it against his ear.

"Hello? Toris speaking," he said. "Oh—oh, hey, Feliks. Yeah, I'm outside the school…what's up?" He looked up at Alfred before standing up from the bench. "I'll see you around, okay?"

"I guess," Alfred said blankly. Toris gave him a rather bemused look before walking away from Gilbert and Alfred, heading toward the end of the sidewalk where he would meet up with Feliks. Alfred sighed and stretched his arms over his head.

"He's always gone, it seems," Alfred said. "Barely see him during the time."

"Maybe you missed him in the midst of all your followers," Gilbert said, crossing his arms.

"Come on, Gilbo, they aren't my _followers_," Alfred said lightly. "Fans, maybe. The word 'followers' seems a bit too much."

"Fans?" Gilbert repeated in a hollow voice. Alfred shrugged and grinned.

"Hey, a superhero has to be some sort of role model, right?" Alfred said brightly.

Gilbert didn't respond immediately. He cast his eyes toward the ground, the cold pavement covered with icy skin.

"Tell me something, Alfred," Gilbert said. The white snow seemed to pale in comparison to Gilbert's face. His eyes looked like drops of red in the pure snow. "Why do you do it?"

"What?" Alfred said confusedly. "Do what?"

"Fight Braginski," Gilbert said in a low voice. Alfred raised an eyebrow.

"I thought I made it sort of clear," he said warily. "What other reason is there? I wanted to save the school from—"

"Why do you want to save the school, then?" Gilbert interrupted. "If you wanted to be a good role model or something, did it have to be fighting the school bully?"

"What's wrong with what I do, huh?" Alfred demanded. "You're not going to pull a Vargas on me, are you?"

"A what?" Gilbert said, raising his eyebrows.

"Nothing," Alfred said quickly. "No, really, why are you asking me this?"

Gilbert turned to face Alfred, his eyes sharpened. "Who are you fighting for, truly? The students or yourself?"

"Myself?" Alfred repeated, aghast. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Stopping Braginski from taking his anger or violence out on people is nice," Gilbert said in a strange voice, "but you have no eyes for the person you're even standing up for. You fight. You yell. You seek revenge. But you don't even know what you're doing."

"What the hell is this?" Alfred said angrily. Arthur jolted; did he hear a trickle of fear in Alfred's voice? Alfred's façade, his attempt to white out his past sins, was slowly being scratched off. "Do you hear yourself, Beilschmidt? Are you seriously saying that I don't even understand?"

"Do you?" Gilbert said sharply. "Did you, last Tuesday when you didn't even check if Raivis was all right after Braginski ran off? Did you, when you threw rotten fish into his car while the rugby team cheered you on like some star player? Did you, when Yong Soo was beaten up but all you cared about was throwing punches?"

"What are you trying to say?" Alfred shouted, his eyes wide with indignation and fear.

"You aren't doing this to be a nice person, are you?" Gilbert demanded. "You just want a reason to hate Braginski." He narrowed his eyes. "Or is it because you want to prove to the world about yourself?"

"Dammit, Beilschmidt," Alfred said quickly. "What have I got to prove? I don't need to show the world something they can already see for themselves!"

"Do you really think I haven't noticed what's going on?" Gilbert said. "You aren't fighting Braginski so you can protect anyone. You're doing it to win people's favour!"

"Are you saying that only because I'm getting more accepted by everyone?" Alfred said too quickly. "Is that what it's all about?"

"I don't give a damn about your ranking in the status quo," Gilbert said coldly. "But you aren't doing this because you _want_ to save people. You want the slaps on the back of congratulations and the awe-inspired stares. You're happiest when everyone crowds around you but you don't even check if anyone is all right after the fight or bullying. You forget about them."

"What's wrong with you?" Alfred said frenetically. "Accusing me of all that—I'm not looking for popularity! I'm not looking for the fan clubs!"

"Then what?" Gilbert challenged. "What is it?"

"I don't want to be the school bully anymore!" The words slipped right out of Alfred's mouth, and now he couldn't stop talking. "After all that business about me being a bully against Patanindagat—I'm not that person! I'm better than that! I need people to _know _that!"

Gilbert stared at Alfred. Alfred shuddered, feeling extremely dirty both inside and out. The true intentions came out, and it tasted absolutely terrible.

"So all that—it was just to put you in a better light?" Gilbert deadpanned. Alfred swallowed hard and crossed his arms tightly. Gilbert became more vehement and his voice rose dangerously. "So—so you thought that just because you're bullying the bully, you're redeeming yourself of what you did before?"

"You don't understand," Alfred said feverishly.

"Then _make_ me," Gilbert said sharply. "_Make _me understand, because all I'm getting from you is that you were being a phony all this time."

"I'm not!" Alfred said, though his voice faltered. Arthur was standing behind Alfred and he saw to his surprise that Alfred's hands were shaking. "I'm not a phony! I _wanted_ to be a good person!"

"How the hell did you achieve that?" Gilbert shouted. Arthur backed away slightly. "What part of the stupid pranks and the fights and the shouting matches made you a good person?"

"Everyone else accepted me back!" Alfred snapped. "To them, I'm not the bully! I'm better than that!"

"How?" Gilbert cried out. "How is this making you any better? You aren't doing this for _them_! You're doing this for _you_!"

"What do you want me to do?" Alfred shouted. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to stop being a liar," Gilbert said bitterly. "Stop pretending you feel some way when in truth you don't."

"And what comes with that? Should I just stop what I'm doing immediately?" Alfred said indignantly. "Just throw away everything?"

"Are you hesitating now?" Gilbert said icily. Alfred gritted his teeth, not responding immediately. Gilbert clenched his teeth before turning on his heel and leaving Alfred.

"W—" Alfred was about to shout out and stop Gilbert, say all right, I will stop, I'll be true—but he stopped himself. Arthur wanted to grab Alfred by the shoulder and shake out the pride or the hesitation or whatever it was that stopped Alfred, but it was too late. Gilbert was out of earshot.

Alfred looked as if he wanted to let a scream erupt from his throat. He punched a nearby oak tree, its barren branches shaking slightly at the impact.

_I _am_ a hero_, he thought frantically to himself. _I'm not a bad person. I'm not who I was before. I hate who I was before. _

_I've changed._

_I'm better._

_I have to be._

Fear infected his nerves and Alfred was vulnerable. He felt the painful stab of each snowflake. He heard the jeers and insults thrown at him by the wind. He winced as the trees around him pointed at him with their gnarled fingers and hate him.

_I'm a better person now._

_I'm better._

_I am._

But the comforting thoughts were slowly faltering…

* * *

"Glad you could make it, Jones."

Alfred stepped inside the dimly lit house. Loud music was blaring from another room and the foyer was already crowded with many teens. When Alfred entered, they all greeted him warmly and offered him a drink or some of the freshest gossip. Alfred smiled at the attention, but Arthur noticed that there was something unenthusiastic in his face. He seemed hesitant to be happy. Arthur squeezed his way through the crowd, trying to avoid bumping into anyone even though they didn't feel it.

"Of course I would make it," Alfred said, taking a bottle of sparkling water from Francis. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Maybe you're too busy saving lives in the streets of the city," Francis joked, winking. Alfred flinched slightly, unbeknownst to anyone. "Lovely of you to squeeze this party into your schedule."

"Am I late?" Alfred asked, even though he didn't really care if he was.

"Not too late. Antonio hasn't shown up yet," Francis said. He spotted Victoria, the Seychellois girl, eating profiteroles in the kitchen and grinned. "Well, have fun, Jones." He immediately sidled off, leaving Alfred to drown in the ocean of people and loud voices and music. Alfred spotted Gilbert in a significantly less crowded corner and immediately shed off his talkative classmates to reach him. When Gilbert saw Alfred coming toward him, he bit his lip before stepping out of the shadows.

"I want to talk to you," they both said right as they met each other halfway through the room. Alfred raised his eyebrows in surprise, a little wary of what Gilbert had left to say.

"Look, I'm sorry," Gilbert said quietly. "I was pretty horrible to you."

"Don't be," Alfred said.

"What?" Gilbert said falteringly.

"Don't be sorry," Alfred repeated. "I know you meant everything you said, and honestly, I don't blame you."

Gilbert frowned slightly. Alfred gave a small shrug and averted his eyes.

"I should be the one saying sorry, anyway," Alfred mumbled.

"Not to me," Gilbert said. "To everyone else. They're the ones who don't know you're only being that hero to redeem yourself from Makisig."

Alfred's cheeks were tinged pink, but he gave a sigh and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, I know." Arthur could hear the hint of hesitation in Alfred's voice. It seemed like the last thing Alfred would do was announce to the student body whose approval he had just earned that he was never who they thought they were.

"Just…don't get yourself in crazy stuff that doesn't do anything, okay?" Gilbert said.

"Like what?"

"You know what I mean. Stupid pranks or fights that aren't the kidding kinds. They don't…do anything," Gilbert said.

"All right, all right," Alfred said. He held out a hand. "Truce?"

"I never knew we were fighting in the first place," Gilbert said, taking Alfred's hand.

Alfred cracked a wry smile before patting Gilbert on the shoulder. "Good man. Hey, let's shake off that damper and get the party going on. Everyone's probably bored to death without us to spice things up."

Gilbert laughed and shook off Alfred's hand. "Aye, aye, captain." He rejoined the rest of the party in the kitchen. Alfred downed the rest of his sparkling water in one gulp and was about to follow everyone else when a voice held him back.

"You're here too, I see."

Alfred turned around and stiffened. Ivan Braginski was standing right next to him, a bundle in one hand and his other on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred immediately brushed Ivan's hand off of him and stepped back, gripping tightly on the neck of the empty bottle of sparkling water.

"What are you doing here?" Alfred said heatedly. The familiar rivalry and animosity were not bound by Alfred's promise and were steadily strengthening. "Who the hell invited you?"

"I am not here for the party," Ivan said icily. He gestured to the bundle under his arm. "My sister forgot her jacket. I didn't want her walking back home cold."

"Right," Alfred said, narrowing his eyes. "Well, then, just give it to me and I'll give it to her. Or give it to Francis. He let you in, didn't he?"

"He didn't seem to mind that I wanted to give it to her myself," said Ivan. "I don't see why you should, considering you aren't even the host."

"I can feel however way I want about you," Alfred said heatedly. "And you still can't find her? Couldn't just call out her name or something? Or are you trying to pretend you belong in this party and join in?"

"Like I would even want to be in the same presence as you," Ivan said coolly. "This entire house's aura is considerably blighted now that you're under its roof."

"Guess it didn't bother you so much that you couldn't just leave the jacket on the door step," Alfred retorted.

"You may not care that much about your sibling, but I prefer that my sisters are kept warm and not have to wear soaking wet clothing," Ivan hissed.

"Oi!" Alfred said sharply. "What are you talking about? Of course I care about Mattie! I'm his big brother!"

"Difficult to say, considering no one ever sees you interact with him while you're drowning yourself in your little fan clubs," Ivan said loftily.

"You've got a problem with my popularity too?" Alfred said, annoyed. "I guess it's understandable, since this is coming from the kid who has no real friends unless he uses threat."

Ivan's eyes flashed dangerously. "Tell me, Jones, is this your little way of being the 'good guy' in your own little world?"

"I _am_ the good guy," Alfred contradicted hotly. "I don't threaten anyone to like me, unlike you!"

"So you aren't like me. Of course, that makes you _so_ much better," Ivan said dangerously. His voice lowered and it brought chills down Arthur's spine. "You are no hero, Jones."

Alfred looked as if he wanted to protest and strike Ivan with more retorts and insults, but no words reached his tongue. Arthur saw how Alfred's body stiffened at the familiar accusations.

"You're no better than anyone," Ivan said harshly. "You strut through the school with your holier-than-thou mindset, convinced that you are the only good person in the world, when in fact you're the very opposite. Who the hell are you saving? Everything you've done did nothing to help anyone."

Alfred's knuckles were white because he was gripping on the neck of the bottle too tightly. Anger was searing in his eyes and he was biting down so hard that his jaws ached.

"Pull all the shit you want with me," Ivan said, "but you won't ever be any better than I am. You will never be a hero. No one is going to ever forgive you."

It all happened so fast that Arthur couldn't even utter a cry. Alfred swung his bottle at Ivan's head, slamming the glass against his temple. Ivan fell against the wall and the bottom lf Alfred's bottle shattered. Alfred pinned Ivan against the wall by the throat, not unlike how Ivan had done to Gilbert long ago in that alleyway. But this time, Alfred had a jagged broken bottle in his hand, and he knew it all too well. Arthur let out a yell of alarm when Alfred's hand was poised before Ivan, anger possessing him like a demon. For a moment, Arthur had forgotten that Ivan was alive and well in the present and thought that Alfred would plunge the glass through Ivan's throat.

"ALFRED!"

Before Alfred could look up, he was shoved out of the way. The glass flew out of his hand and nearly hit the grand piano beside him. Alfred let out a yell of anger and shock when the person pulled him away from Ivan. Arthur took a closer look and realized it was Ludwig holding him back.

"Alfred, what are you doing?" Ludwig yelled. The whole house with its laughter, music, and conversations suddenly quieted. "What in the world are you doing?"

Arthur looked up and realized that the people that had been in the kitchen were all now in the living room, staring at Ivan and Alfred with horrified eyes. They had seen the whole thing. A blond girl broke from the crowd and rushed toward Ivan, who was staggering back onto his feet. The look on Gilbert's face was absolutely stunned.

"What in the world are you doing, Jones?" Francis demanded. "Are you trying to kill people under my roof?"

Alfred was frozen in Ludwig's grip, realization of what he had just done dawning upon him. A look of fear grazed across his face as he saw the terrified and disillusioned faces of his peers all around him. There was no more awe or admiration in their eyes anymore.

"How dare you?" the blond girl, Natalia, screeched at Alfred, hugging Ivan tightly. "How dare you? What kind of monster are you? You could have killed him! _You could have killed him_!"

"What were you thinking?" another voice demanded wildly.

Alfred's heart was suddenly beating so fast that it could have easily jumped right out of his chest. The room was suddenly too crowded for him. All the eyes staring at him were burning his skin with their angry accusations. To them, he was no longer the cocky but brave rebel of the school. He was the violent monster who would have killed someone had Ludwig not stopped him in time.

"I didn't meant to—" Alfred tried to say, but his throat was suddenly so dry that he nearly choked on his own words. The words were worth nothing to everyone now. They need not his excuses or pleas.

They hated him.

They despised him.

And he knew they would all along.

Without another sound, Alfred tore out of Ludwig's grip and darted toward the door. He thought he heard Gilbert call out for him, but he wasn't sure. He didn't stay around long enough to find out. He burst through the front door while Arthur hurried forward in pursuit of him.

He was running. Running. Running. He didn't even know where to. He just knew that he had to get away. To vanish. To disappear without a trace. To pretend that he was never there.

His legs were powered by a frenzied panic. He could barely feel them move, only the ground under his feet as they pounded on the street. He couldn't feel the wind whistle past his ears or comb his blond hair as he raced through the winding streets and alleys. He couldn't feel the cold air bite fiercely on his skin, chilling his blood. That didn't make a difference, though. He was supposed to be coldblooded. Cold-hearted, if not heartless. Frosty blood wasn't supposed to hurt him.

He couldn't feel anything except his own heart thundering in his chest. It grew fiercer and ruthless at every beat until it was like a cannon was being shot at his chest continuously, threatening to kill him.  
There were some people up ahead. He bowed his head and tried to hide from them, not slowing down. He accidentally stumbled and nearly crashed into the lamppost, letting out a ragged gasp that nearly tore his throat. A stranger's voice called out to him, but he did not answer. He wanted to vanish. Disappear without a trace. Pretend he was never there.

Disappear.

Just disappear.

And that was exactly what Arthur did.

* * *

**"I'm sorry for the person I became.****  
I'm sorry that it took so long for me to change.  
I'm ready to be sure I never become that way again  
'cause who I am hates who I've been.  
Who I am hates who I've been…"**

**-Relient K, "Who I Am Hates Who I've Been"**


	15. Somebody's Baby

**I'm still alive. Barely, but still alive.**

**Sorry for the whole confusion about the deleted story thing...at first, I seriously doubted my ability to continue this story, but after much urging from my father and a commitment I made with my sister, I finally pulled myself up to get through it. Thank you so much for those who have PMed me with help suggestions. I really appreciate your time and efforts.**

**Also, I'm sure everyone knows about the tragedy in regards to Japan and the earthquake and tsunami. Although it has been several weeks since this occurred, Japan is still facing much hardships from the after effects, for rebuilding and helping the people take a _much _longer time to heal even after it has stopped making the front page on the newspaper. If you feel moved to, please donate a minimum of ten dollars to the Red Cross, specifically to this link because my sister's Asian Intervarsity organization in her university is doing the Thousand Paper Cranes For Japan event, which is pretty worldwide. Although the actual event in her college finished very recently, you can still donate to Red Cross through them to that the Asian Intervarsity can raise awareness in her area. Otherwise, please continue keeping Japan in your thoughts; they are still on the long road to healing and can never have too much support. **

**Here is the news article on the event:**

http(colon)/pittnews(dot)com/newsstory(slash)pitt-students-fundraise-for-japan-relief/

**And here is where you can donate:**

http(colon)/www(dot)razoo(dot)com/story/Relief4japan

**Thank you so much for your time and patience, and thank you for coming back to this chapter after so many headaches it has caused. I must say, after finishing this chapter, I was so bloody relieved and ecstatic as if I finished running a marathon even though I still have about two or so more chapters left to write. Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. **

* * *

**_This is the way the world ends  
Not with a bang but a whimper._**

** -T.S. Eliot, 'The Hollow Men'  
**

Arthur and Alfred were in the school again, but this time, the atmosphere was stiffer, colder, and warier. Alfred entered the school with his head down and his lips pursed into a thin line. Even though Arthur did not belong in this time or place, he could still feel the tension in the air.

The students stared at Alfred as he passed them in the hallway. Alfred kept his eyes focused straight ahead of him, but every now and then he would guiltily let himself take a peek at the people around him, staring at him and whispering amongst each other. Judging by the looks on their faces, their gossip was nothing pleasant. Alfred swallowed hard and quickened his pace.

"Heya, buds," Alfred called out to some boys who Arthur recognized as some of Alfred's fans. Instead of grinning and thumping Alfred's back in greeting like they usually did, they watched the blond American warily and their faces hardened at the sight of him.

"Jones," one of them said in a cursory greeting. Alfred's weak smile immediately sapped off his face. He could feel the bitterness grating against his skin.

"What's…what's up?" Alfred said feebly.

"Nothing." The words were quick and biting. It did not go unnoticed to Alfred. It rather surprised Arthur; he had always assumed that Alfred was one who could never read the atmosphere, but now Arthur could clearly see what Alfred noticed, even if Alfred did not readily respond.

"People are kinda quiet today," Alfred said casually.

"Huh."

"How was your weekend?"

The teenager gave Alfred a strange look. "What do you want?"

"I just want a conversation," Alfred said. "Is that a crime?"

The boy grunted. Alfred seemed to bristle with indignation. He grabbed the other by the shoulder.

"Oi, come on. What is going on?" Alfred demanded.

"Don't do that!" the teenager snapped, jerking away. "Why the hell are you so violent?"

"I'm not violent!" Alfred protested.

"Oh yeah? Then what do you say you were at Bonnefoy's party on Saturday?" the boy growled.

Alfred stiffened at the memory. "You don't understand. He provoked me."

"So you nearly killed him?"

"You're exaggerating," Alfred argued hotly.

"Then what were you going to do, huh? Maim him instead?" the boy said harshly.

"Are you trying to be the good Samaritan or something?" Alfred demanded. "When did you ever give a damn?"

"At least I don't bully people around and nearly kill them!" the boy hissed. "All for your own sake!"

Alfred couldn't believe what he was hearing. Wasn't this the same boy that congratulated Alfred when he won an argument against Ivan? Who whooped and patted his back after a clever prank? Now he condemned everything he had admired in Alfred.

"Wait—my own sake?" Alfred said, aghast. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't think we're all stupid and ignorant," the boy said. "We all know that you only did all that saving people business so that we would all forget about you bullying Makisig."

"Where did you hear that?" Alfred said falteringly, his blood running cold.

"The whole school knows it by now! What do you think we are, stupid?" After dishing out everything on his mind, the boy spun on his heel and left, leaving Alfred in a flurry of vehement confusion. Just two days ago, that same teenager excitedly greeted him at Francis's party and offered new ideas for pranks. That thought alone made Alfred's throat burn.

He wasted no time in searching for Gilbert. Arthur had trouble following Alfred as Alfred raced through the hallway, not stopping for anyone to give him an upset or scared glance or shout. He tore through the halls so quickly that Arthur thought he would rip a hole through time and disappear.

"Alfred!" a voice cried out. Arthur turned his head and saw that it was Tino, the Finnish student that he sometimes saw in the hallway. "Alfred, is it true?" His eyes were wide with hurt puzzlement. "Were you really doing all that just for—?"

Alfred didn't stay to chat. He darted away as fast as he could. When he finally saw Gilbert at the other end of the hallway, he picked up his pace.

"Beilschmidt! OI! BEILSCHMIDT!"

Gilbert, unused to Alfred addressing him by his last name, warily turned forward. Alfred's face was livid when he reached Gilbert. Arthur instinctively tried to hold Alfred back, but his fingers slipped right of Alfred as if he was made of ice.

"What?" Gilbert said slowly.

"You told everyone?" Alfred demanded under his breath. He was practically pressing Gilbert up against the wall.

"What are you talking about?" Gilbert hissed.

"About me and my—my reasons! You know what I'm talking about!" Alfred growled.

"Dammit, no I don't!" Gilbert snapped, pushing Alfred away.

"I'm talking about what _we_ were talking about on Friday!" Alfred retorted. "Remember when you completely flipped out on me?"

"I didn't tell anyone about that!" Gilbert snarled. "What kind of person do you think I am? Of course I wouldn't just tell people that!"

"Then why does everyone know about it?"

"How would I know? Can I read minds?"

"Someone told everyone," Alfred said fervently. "They knew about my reasons and they blabbed to the whole school about it."

"And you think it was me?" Gilbert said incredulously.

"Who else would have known besides you?" said Alfred.

"What kind of person do you think I am?" Gilbert said angrily. "Sure, I lie, I fight, I lose my temper, I do a lot of shit. But I don't stab people in the back. I thought you knew me better than that, _Jones_."

"Hell, I thought I knew a lot of people, but turns out I was wrong about them!" Alfred hurled at him.

"The fault is all yours," Gilbert said. "I don't know any more than you do about this, but I advise you next time to think things through before you bulldoze anyone over!"

Gilbert wrenched himself away from Alfred, fuming. Alfred opened his mouth to snap back, but he remained silent. Instead, he let out a growl and punched a nearby locker. Students turned their gaze sharply to Alfred at the sound of bone smashing metal. Alfred was shuddering with anger that Arthur thought he would positively explode under all the pressure.

"My, my, someone can't keep their temper."

Alfred's face twisted into a hateful grimace at the sound of Ivan's voice. Ivan stood behind him, and though his voice was cold and bitter, his face was calm and nearly emotionless.

"It's about time that people saw your true colours."

"What shit are you spewing out, Braginski?" Alfred said in a cold voice.

"Now everyone can see how rotten you really are," Ivan said coldly. A light smile graced his features. "Seems like everyone now regrets worshiping you as a hero that you never were."

Alfred's eyes widened with realization. He spun around, his blue eyes wide with horrified fury.

"You told everyone?" he said quietly.

Ivan's smile grew wider, making Alfred's blood freeze. "You mustn't tell lies, Alfred. Heroes don't lie, you know."

"I wasn't being a liar," Alfred said, his voice shaking. All this time, he had forgotten that Ivan was in the same room as Gilbert and Alfred when the two were apologizing. Ivan must have heard them when they mentioned Alfred trying to redress himself in the students' eyes. Ivan was the one who told everyone.

"Don't try to redeem yourself now, Jones. It's too late," Ivan said icily. "You were never a hero. Only a self-centred son of a bitch."

Alfred wanted to retort, to save face, but he didn't have the heart to. He knew deep in his heart that Ivan was right.

All he could do was stand silently, trembling, wishing to go back in time and stop his past self from digging himself into an inescapable hole.

* * *

No one spoke to Alfred.

When they did, it was out of pure necessity, and their voices would be in such polite tones it was as if they were all strangers.

Arthur watched sombrely as students confronted Alfred, whether angrily or desolately. Ivan's sister, Natalia, glared daggers at him every time she laid eyes on him. Feliciano had tentatively came up to Alfred during the day after several students glared at Alfred and gave him rude hand gestures.

"Is it true?" Feliciano whimpered. "What everyone is saying? That you never—never cared about the people you were helping?"

Alfred hesitated, wondering if it was better to lie. However, he finally gave in to the truth.

"I _did _care about you guys," he said in a pained voice. "I just…didn't _fight _for you."

The look on Feliciano's face was heartbreaking, and Alfred's conscience sank like a stone inside of him. Lovino dragged Feliciano away from Alfred, shouting at the latter over his shoulder before disappearing. Alfred's heart felt like a thirty-kilogram weight dangling on a thin string, threatening to snap and send his heart crashing to his soles and splintering into a thousand pieces.

When Alfred spotted Gilbert near the end of the day by the music wing, he hesitated. He could practically feel the tension in the air grow even icier and stiffer than before. However, he couldn't stand moving on while his friend was currently hating him. He sucked in a deep breath of air before slowly approaching him.

"Gilbert?" Alfred said when he was within earshot. Gilbert stiffened and he turned slightly away from Alfred. Alfred jogged toward Gilbert, his heart racing nervously and his words slipping on his tongue as if it were slick like ice.

"Hey…" Alfred said quietly. Gilbert didn't respond, but he didn't try to leave either. It comforted Alfred very slightly. "So…um, so I found out that—uh—that Braginski was the one who told everyone."

"Mm," was Gilbert's only response. Alfred bit his lip, his palms feeling sweaty.

"Look, Gilbert, I'm really sorry," Alfred said quietly. "I hate myself right now. I shouldn't have been like that. I know. I'm a piece of shit. I really am."

"Forget it," Gilbert said monotonously, shrugging.

"What?" Alfred said tentatively.

"Forget about it," Gilbert repeated, turning toward Alfred. "It's fine."

"How can you just let it go so easily?" Alfred asked.

Gilbert shrugged apathetically. "In all honesty, you've got more than enough people bearing a grudge on you already."

Alfred didn't laugh. Gilbert sighed and shook Alfred gently on the shoulder.

"Listen, this happens in every other novel or movie," Gilbert said. "Someone makes a mistake, everyone hates them, and in the end—"

"In the end, some far-fetched miracle happens and everyone loves them again," Alfred interrupted. "I tried that the first time, didn't I? It won't happen the second."

Gilbert checked the time on his watch. It read one hour before school ended for the day. "Let's leave."

"What?" Alfred said confusedly.

"Let's play hookie. Come on. The only class you have left is Psychology. You can pass that class without even learning the lessons."

"Where would we go?" asked Alfred.

"I don't know. Anywhere. Just not here. Come on, I know you want to," Gilbert egged on. "No one would notice us if we leave. They wouldn't even notice us if we were here."

The offer was tempting. So tempting, in fact, that Arthur thought he could see Alfred eye the door hungrily like a wolf. After a moment of hesitation, he finally nodded. The two of them didn't exchange a word to each other as they pulled their backpacks over their shoulders and walked straight out of the door. No one noticed. No one would have bothered to do anything even if they did see Alfred and Gilbert skip school. They wouldn't care about two teenagers.

"I didn't drive to school today," Alfred said. "Did you?"

"Nope," Gilbert said simply.

"Then how are we going to get anywhere?"

"It's a really complicated process, so listen up. We're going to move our legs one after the other and let our feet take us forward when it touches the ground."

"All right, I get it," Alfred said sourly. "Don't have to get all sarcastic on me."

Gilbert shrugged. They walked in silence for several blocks, avoiding each other's eyes, before they finally stopped at a local coffee shop. It wasn't very busy considering the time of day; only several college students and an elderly couple sat inside.

"You want to go in?" Gilbert offered.

"Not really," Alfred admitted.

"What is this? Since when did you decline coffee?"Gilbert said.

"Come on, Gil, let's go," Alfred mumbled, tugging at Gilbert's sleeve. Gilbert sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"You're pretty bothered, aren't you?" he noted.

"I shouldn't have done any of it," Alfred blurted out. He sat down on the bus stop bench and groaned. "I shouldn't have beaten up Braginski. I shouldn't have targeted him as my enemy just so I could be a better person. Hell, I shouldn't have even messed with Makisig."

Gilbert sat down next to Alfred and put an arm around his shoulder. Alfred pressed his palms against the side of his head as if trying to clear his mind.

"What am I supposed to do now?" Alfred groaned.

"They'll let it go. Sooner or later, but they will," Gilbert said.

"I don't even understand why you aren't still mad at me," Alfred admitted. "I'd thought that you of all people would be the most upset with me."

"You're lucky I had seven classes to cool down," said Gilbert. "How were they? Your classes, I mean. Did people…did they confront you?"

"Hm," Alfred replied simply, shrugging. "The word spread incredibly fast, I can guarantee that."

"They'll calm down," Gilbert said. "Don't worry. I guess…I guess you should apologize or something."

"How would I do that? Make a public announcement on the overhead system?" Alfred said warily.

"I would briefly consider it, just in case," said Gilbert.

"This isn't some little teen movie where the main character apologizes and everyone is happy in the end," Alfred said. "I made a huge mistake. I seriously did and now...an apology isn't going to cover it, you know?"

"It worked for me," pointed out Gilbert.

"Yeah, well, you're a special case, I'm sure," Alfred said. "Not everyone's like you."

"Not everyone's as awesome as me," Gilbert said, grinning. When Alfred did not partake in his humour, Gilbert sobered immediately. "Think about it this way, Al...you could have done a lot worse things. I'm not trying to downplay what you did, because I admit, it wasn't that great, but—it's not _impossible_ to fix. Remember that time when I completely screwed over Feliks multiple times back in middle school? I used to steal his stuff all the time and he hated me for that. Like, legitimately hated me, and so did Toris and company. I did that to even Roderich sometimes and he and Elizaveta hated me for that. Heck, there was a point in my life where even Francis hated the crap out of me due to some fight we had relating to West, or something like that. My point is, I am a far cry from an angel—maybe a particularly cool devil, but nevertheless, I wasn't the most compassionate of people. But even though I pissed off all those people, and even though it took pretty much half of middle school and half of high school to make things right again...things got right again. You see?"

Alfred said nothing. Gilbert's face fell slightly, as if contemplating whether he said the wrong thing or not. He put a hand on Alfred's shoulder and gripped it gently.

"You learned your mistake, right?" said Gilbert. "Good. You were tested and then you learned your lesson. Now don't worry over it like a mother goose and do something about it. But don't expect immediate results. I'm just warning you now—things bubble over for a long time."

Alfred nodded, but he still carried a look of uncertainty on his face. "I'll try."

"Try? Alfred F. Jones, you are Alfred F. Jones! You don't try, you do! Isn't there some famous quote like that? Do or do not, there is no try?"

"I get it, I get it!" Alfred said, slightly frantic. He pursed his lips and discreetly shrugged off Gilbert's hand. "I just—have to think things through. How to approach them and...such."

"And what are ya going to do about Braginski?"

Alfred furrowed his eyebrows. "What are _you_ going to do about him?" He turned toward Gilbert. "Though our problems are different, he's still your problem."

Gilbert tilted his head in thought. "I'll see what happens. I'm not even sure how he'll deal with me—if things changed at all."

"Dear God," Alfred said desperately. "If after all this he still screws you guys over, I'll have done all that for nothing."

"But you didn't fight for us, right?" Gilbert said. Alfred's heart sank to the bottom of his shoes. "Okay, that was probably the wrong thing to say..."

"You're right, though," Alfred said earnestly. "I can't try to cover up what I did with things I know aren't true. I mean, I care about you all—I really did—I seriously didn't want you guys to get hurt."

"I get that. I know you a little bit, you know," Gilbert said.

"That's a relief," Alfred said, "because I can't say I know myself at all."

Gilbert pursed his lips before hitting Alfred lightly on the back of the head.

"You do know who you are," Gilbert said. "You're just in denial, or something." He hesitated. "Relax, okay? Even if it takes everyone months to get over it, I'll still be on your side. Is that good enough for you? It should be; I'm an amazing ally."

Alfred laughed, but his smile did not take root. "Of course, Gil."

Arthur wondered how much that really meant to Alfred if months later, Alfred would kill himself.

* * *

The slower Arthur realized the memories were becoming, the more confused he became.

After that conversation between Alfred and Gilbert, Arthur walked alongside Alfred through each day, the first barely any different from the next. It was the same pattern for what Arthur felt like weeks: the isolation, the guilt, and the silence, hand in hand.

Why was this important?

Didn't these memories skip to the important details? Why was he watching these entire colourless days pass by? It was a predictable cycle on repeat. Alfred was still resented, he still kept his head high, and he still crumbled with guilt within.

But as each day passed and each recycled chapter of the story reappeared with more or less the same details,. He could hear how Alfred's words were brief and quiet. He could see Alfred's face grow longer and paler, and yet his baby blue eyes drinking in everything around him. The quieter Alfred was, the sharper his eyes became as he watched his peers, his classmates, his old 'friends.'

And as paradoxical as it was, the sharper Alfred's attention became, the duller the glint in his blue irises. Everything about him seemed to sag with a heavy burden, dragging on the floor until he felt disgusting both inside and outside. Whenever he was near people, instead of his usual extroverted giddiness, he was reclusive and strived to be unnoticed—perhaps he was even _scared_.

Arthur almost snorted at such an idea. Why would Alfred be scared of people? Alfred was jeered at, scoffed, chided, and if not any of those abuses, ignored by his classmates, but this did not bother Alfred any more than it should; he had expected it and he knew he deserved it. What excuse could he have for his lie?

This was not what Alfred noticed and what Alfred dreaded.

And then Arthur realized that it was the mundane that was the most importance.

He had no idea how he could understand Alfred's thoughts even though Alfred said nothing even remotely related to them. Alfred still kept his chin up, his eyes wide, and his smile chiselled on his lips, with his voice still high and loud with (forced?) laughter, yet just by looking at him, Arthur could know everything there was about Alfred that no one else could tell.

Were these really Alfred's real memories? If they were anyone else's, how could Arthur know what Alfred felt? None of it made sense to Arthur, as thousands of dusty thoughts flooded his mind and crowding out his own, but he began to question the validity in Puck's and the memory of Alfred's words—perhaps this was not just a collection of memory, but the plain and cold truth staring right at him.

How could he know these things?

And then it came to Arthur.

Journals.

Music.

Sketches.

Words whispered into the invisible.

Alfred had poured his thoughts and emotions in the form of words and notes and shapes, in such cryptic art that no one except his own mind could understand the tumult within. Yet they were there—the story and memories everyone was desperate to find was in black and white on the paper that overflowed in his notebooks, but no one except he could understand them. Words weren't the only kind of storyteller.

There was no solid turning point where Alfred became depressed to the point of no return. It was a slow downward spiral, the waves wearing down rock until it was nothing but sand and dust.

Towers did not topple, they crumbled.

As his mockers stoned him for his crime, Alfred barely had enough strength to lift up his head and watch their retreating backs as they stabbed each other in the back, lied to one another, cheated on each other, insulted, fought, stole, abused. A person would talk behind his friend's back and say the most horrible criticisms the moment the friend leaves the room without a second of hesitation. A girl would blatantly cheat on her boyfriend with no regrets or repercussions. Hordes would tease the disabled students whether from afar or in their faces. It was a never-ending cycle, churning over and over again with no hand strong enough to stop it.

And then they would turn around, spit on Alfred for being the terrible liar everyone called him out to be, before going on with their own lives untouched.

Alfred almost wanted to punch himself for never noticing this before. Or perhaps, he had seen all this betrayal long before he joined in, but was never bothered by it. It was a part of the teenager's life, he must have reasoned to himself. It wasn't like he could change this, he must have thought.

But now that he was branded with the scarlet letter and an even more crimson shame, he tore off his blinders and saw everything in an uncensored light.

His persecutors were committing the same crimes as him, but he was the one who got caught. And that made all the difference.

_But why?_

If they knew they were as guilty, if not could understand Alfred's reasoning, why did they still insist on begrudging him? Why was he the monster and they the valiant knights of justice?

Perhaps they needed a scapegoat.

They used Alfred as a stepladder to push their own faults and disadvantages far below them. They stood on a pedestal of superiority and self-esteem by staring down at him underneath them—he was the good-for-nothing wrongdoer and since they 'never would think of doing what he did'—or at least get caught doing so—they were better than him. They weren't the terrible people they feared of being after all.

Everything was just a lie.

_Stop, _Alfred thought continuously to himself, almost frantically, even though his face showed no sign of fear when these blasphemous thoughts against society attacked him. _You're wrong._

_People aren't all that bad._

_It's only you who is bad._

_Not everyone is as rotten as you, and you're proving this just by assuming it._

But even with these pleas to his subconscious, he could not ignore what he has already branded into his realization.

Everyone lies.

Everyone has faults and everyone was a hypocrite.

He was no exception.

"You're wrong," Arthur blurted out, even though Alfred could never hear him.

"You're wrong—you're right and you're wrong."

Alfred stared straight ahead, into the unknown space.

"Everyone lies, everyone does bad things, but that doesn't mean everyone is a terrible person."

Right?

But Alfred would never listen to Arthur's reasoning. No one could give him this mindset because no one even knew how he felt. To everyone else, he was still a stupid grinning face with nothing more behind the mask.

_Is it right to feel this way?_

The resentment Alfred felt for everyone around him soon imploded, collapsing onto itself inside of him until it folded and hardened like sedimentary rock, thousands of layers of doubts and distrust that built up after a course of several months. How could he hate those around him if he was no better? Wasn't he thinking himself better than the others, morally superior or wise compared to his peers because he noticed this flaw? He was far from being better than everyone else, and just separating himself from the generalized, faulty populace made him an even worse person. To think that he thought he was special in comparison to everyone else, the lone soldier fighting for the right cause!

Was he not committing the same crime that he blamed everyone else of doing? By listing the endless wrongs he had observed in others, he had tried to make himself seem like the better person with the cleaner conscience.

He was the worst of them all.

The world was a callous place, but he was the most painful sore.

And it went from a slow crumble to painful shattering.

The grim grin became a crooked, wry smile, before fading altogether. His grades wavered as his will to do anything sagged. He would not speak unless spoken to.

But no one noticed that it was anything worth mentioning.

"Say something!" Arthur cried.

"Do something!"

"Tell someone!"

Anything.

Why wouldn't Alfred do _anything_?

Was he scared?

Scared that people would reject him, or misunderstand him?

Or could he just not bring himself to force the truth onto them?

Whatever it was—fear, pity, guilt, shame—it kept him fatally silent.

True to Gilbert's word, people gradually accepted Alfred back into society again. They no longer shunned him like a carrier of an infectious disease and even welcomed him into their social circles, but it was far too late. Alfred couldn't bring himself to return to the people he felt so isolated from and so inferior to. Couldn't they see how much of a terrible person he was, or was he so manipulative, so fake, so two-faced that they couldn't notice?

Arthur was forced to watch Alfred drive towards the inevitable end of the road at such a maddeningly slow pace. Hell, Alfred broke his own brakes and was driving himself on autopilot without giving any indication that he needed any help. Did he even want any?

Why wouldn't he?

But even if Arthur was with Alfred before it was too late, what could he have possibly said to him?

How could he have proved to Alfred that the world wasn't as cruel as he took it to be?

Every sign of goodness or hope that traipsed past Alfred on the way was soon overshadowed by the raw cruelty fellow human beings inflicted on each other. Optimism was too fragile and darkness too memorable. It was the coarse rumours and gory war stories that were passed down from generation to generation and drove rifts through races, nations, families, and hearts, not the opposite.

Alfred did not crash with a bang, but died piece by piece. As the days stretched to weeks and the weeks layered into months, Alfred slowly lost his senses one at a time.

First was his sense of smell. No fragrance brought forth a cheery déjà vu that reminded him of something he loved. Every odour did not affect him with distaste or excitement. In fact, he could barely breathe; he was drowning and every breath he took was too precious to concentrate on scent and yet every breath was wasted. Toris would ask every day how Alfred was doing, and every day Alfred would nod without a word.

Next was his sense of taste. He barely ate, and when he did, it was out of pure necessity. Even his usual favourite snack of burgers and fries was useless to him.

"Are you already done eating dinner?" Matthew would ask.

"Why weren't you at lunch today?" Gilbert would demand.

"You look ill; are you all right?" Toris would say.

Alfred would dismiss each inquiry with a wave of the hand or a careless shrug. He consumed less and less, and he wasted away until he was a barely functioning skeleton, living only because he has to. But was there really a reason anymore?

Afterwards was his sense of hearing. Toris, Matthew, Gilbert, his family, anyone tried to engage Alfred in conversation and he would say nothing as if he never heard them. Words meant nothing to him; how did he know there was no darker, crueller undertone in everything someone said? Even his own voice was like jagged rocks grating against his ears, and soon he resolved into silence.

Then was his sense of sight. He could barely recognize his reflection wasting away in the mirror. It was the face of a stranger, the face of a condemned criminal on a mug shot that he couldn't stand looking at without fighting down the urge to vomit. Every colour was garish—far too painful to look at. He was now barely acquainted with the faces of his former friends. When they spoke to him, his eyes were so blank and tired that they almost looked blind. Someone had notified a guidance counsellor and she sat Alfred down one day to talk. Alfred would nod or shake his head at the appropriate times. I'm fine, don't worry about me, I'm just feeling stressed from school, I'm just not getting a lot of sleep, I'll be bright as morning soon.

Last was his sense of touch. Warmth did not comfort him. The cold did not shake him awake and alive. The gentlest touch, the warmest hug, even the presence of another meant nothing to him. To him, they were fake, just a tool to manipulate others, deceitful and judgmental. Even pain no longer touched him. Now, his friends would cast a wary glance at his silent form before shaking their heads silently and moving on, convinced that this problem was far beyond their control and someone better, older, wiser would do something about it, or perhaps they thought that it was just a phase Alfred was going through, and sooner or later things will be normal again.

He dreamed of things getting better again.

He dreamed that he would emerge as a better person that was genuine. He dreamed of the world being a better place and everyone living in a utopia that endured no suffering.

_(He dreamed about heaven, remembering Hell as a nightmare he visits and knows all too well)_

Arthur couldn't stand it. He couldn't stand watching in the sidelines and unable to even shout out to Alfred for him to hear. But he had to constantly remind himself: I can't do anything. It's too late, it's gone, good bye, all that is over now. I can't change a thing.

He wished he could wake himself up. He knew where this was going and he couldn't bear to bring himself to watch. In the beginning he was dying to know, desperate for the truth and starving for an epiphany. Now he had grown older, wiser, tired, in a course of a night.

He didn't want to see, but he was cursed to now. He had demanded it, so now he must see it through.

But now he had come to know Alfred so much that he was not surprised when he saw Alfred teetering on the side of the school roof, and when Ludwig burst through the door demanding that Alfred didn't jump, things made more sense.

He was not surprised when Alfred bought a bottle of pills and alcohol and stowed them away in his closet for weeks, sometimes taking them out in the dead of night and staring at them for the longest time, trying to convince himself to throw them away and pretend he had never touched them, only to return them into the darkest crevice of his closet.

And in the very end, he was not surprised when in the middle of the night, Alfred finally swallowed down the pills, downed the bottle of alcohol, and crawled under his sheets to submit himself to an endless slumber.

Arthur couldn't watch. He felt everything in him growing tense, tightening, aching as he sensed Alfred's silhouette moving in the darkness of his bedroom. His eyes stung and his throat tightened and the air in his nose so dense that he couldn't take a breath. He couldn't see. He couldn't understand, and yet he knew everything.

He ran.

He ran out of the bedroom before Alfred could even close his eyes. He scampered down the stairs and out of the room as if a monster was chasing him and threatening to kill him as well. He burst through the front doors and onto the cold, night streets. How far could this nightmare extend? If he ran far enough, could he reach the boundaries, or would he rebound back to that bedroom with a dying man?

He ran until he could feel the soles of his feet bleed from the sharp gravel on the road.

He ran until the air was forced down his nose and throat and the tears whipped out of his eyes.

He ran, his mind wildly wondering if Alfred was still fading from the world, taking his last breaths as he tried to fall asleep, knowing fully well he would never wake up, or if Alfred was already dead. Did he have any last regrets as his breath grew jagged and desperate, or did he fall into Death's welcoming arms?

He had no answers. He didn't want them. Those were the only questions left unanswered.

_(The birth and the death were both over)_

He ran, begging that the dream would end, begging that he wouldn't have to stay to watch Matthew find his brother's dead body, or Gilbert's shock, or the funeral that would follow. Let it be over. Close the book, burn the story, and immerse himself in ignorance and happiness that he wished he clung to.

He ran until there was nowhere else to run to.

And everything was black nothingness. His body—if it was still in existence—hovered in endless space, in a vacuum that sucked out his breath and tears.

And then he felt warmth. He felt solidity, air in his lungs, boiling in his eyes, and he took a breath.

He opened his eyes.

Arthur was alone in his own bedroom. The lights were still on, the mug still on the floor, the tea now dried up from the carpet. The clock read only a mere seven minutes since the last time he had checked before he demanded Alfred's memory to tell the truth.

It was all over.

He knew the truth, and now all he could do was just _know_.

What else was there to do?

He kept taking in breaths, each one more painful than the last. He was on his knees on his own bed, alone, silent, gripping the comforter in his fists.

Alfred was gone, and he had always been gone.

_The truth at last._

Why did it have to be this way?

He knew everything, and yet he still selfishly asked, 'why?'

Why couldn't things have worked out for the better for Alfred?

Why couldn't he have regained hope?

Why?

Why...?

Arthur finally let out a shattered breath before bowing his head and sobbing.

_It had always been over._


	16. Their Eyes Were Watching God

**Hey, so I received some messages pointing out some mistakes in the consistency of my story from my last chapter. In an earlier chapter I had said something about Alfred 'taking the knife from the kitchen counter and carving the life out of him' in chapter nine, which implies that Alfred either A) cut himself, or B) killed himself by cutting, but then in the previous chapter I wrote that Alfred overdosed and never mentioned that he cut himself.**

**There's a very logical explanation to this strange and unexpected inconsistency:**

**I changed my mind.**

**Somewhere in that very long gap where I didn't update any chapters at all, I went through a bit of a change in thinking process and in the end I was very against Alfred doing any cutting. I guess a whole month and a half of not writing makes you do some very heavy editing in your head that doesn't always transcend on documents. Sorry for the confusion, everyone. I guess I could pull a Big Brother and erase that sentence from the chapter and pretend that the inconsistency never happened, but ah well, you all have already caught me. **

**Oh, and by the way, were any of you guys at Colossalcon on June 2-5?**

* * *

**"Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend****  
Somewhere along in the bitterness  
And I would have stayed up with you all night  
Had I known how to save a life…"**

**-The Fray, "How to Save a Life"**

_Beep._

Arthur stumbled, nearly falling against his nightstand at that sound. His heart jumped as he spun around, trying to locate the source of the sound. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, still feeling sick to the stomach as he closed the door to his bathroom.

_Beep beep._

Arthur glanced at the clock. It was two in the morning now and he desperately wanted to sleep even though he was no longer tired and he knew that even if he was able to fall asleep, he'd be left tossing and turning in his mind. He felt tainted, as if he no longer belonged in this world, whatever it was.

It took him nearly five minutes to realize that it was his cell phone making noise. He crawled over his bed, precariously stepping over the mug still lying on the carpet, and picked up the cell phone from his desk. He didn't recall setting any alarm on his phone for such an hour. Why would it be making noise in the middle of the night? Perhaps it was losing batteries.

He crawled back onto his bed, resting his back against the wall. He kept pinching himself, unable to accept that he was now completely awake and no longer in a dream state of Alfred's past. How could it not have been real? That whole ordeal—however long it was—felt so real that now he questioned the truth of the reality he was in now. What if he was still dreaming and he had yet to wake up?

He groaned and fell onto his bed, curling into a ball in a nest of his covers. Where was Alfred's memory now? Did he ever exist in the first place? Pushing the doubts from his mind, he wearily flipped open his cell phone.

Strange. When did he ever have these missed phone calls? There were three missed calls logged onto his phone, but he knew that he never heard his phone chime. He was about to dismiss it as a technological glitch until he realized that the phone calls were made in the several minutes he was gone from this world. Was he in such a catatonic state that he couldn't even hear 'God Save the Queen' blaring from his dresser?

"Who the bloody hell is calling me in the middle of a Saturday morning?" Arthur grumbled. When he checked the caller log, his incredulity surged.

Gilbert Beilschmidt.

"You idiot," Arthur muttered, rubbing his eyes. What were the possibilities that Gilbert could be drunk dialing him? Arthur furrowed his eyebrows; it didn't seem too likely—after all, if a drunk person was on the phone, the chances of them constantly calling his cell phone even when he didn't pick up seemed slim.

Whatever. He was going to call back, even if it would wake up Gilbert, just to spite him. Arthur pressed the redial button and flopped back onto his bed, barely holding the phone up to his hear. There was no answer. He redialled.

Again.

And again.

Was Gilbert asleep or something?

Or maybe he turned off his cell phone—but even then, wouldn't it just direct him to the voice mail automatically? Maybe Gilbert was so dead asleep by now that he couldn't even hear the phone.

Arthur gripped the phone tightly. He ought to just forget about the entire thing and try to get some sleep. His mind was so worn already and all he wanted was sweet oblivion—dreamless slumber. He rolled onto his back, staring at the dimly lit ceiling and waiting for sleep to claim him.

But he couldn't.

He couldn't understand why, but his heart was pumping frantically in his chest. His stomach shrivelled and left a very sour, aching nervousness inside of him. He kept tossing and turning and probably did three somersault in the course of only five minutes of lying in bed.

Something made him afraid.

He sat up, running his hands through his mussed hair, tempted to just scream his lungs out until every drop of his voice was gone. He was afraid, stressed, frantic, _angry_—but of what? Of who? Was he still so scarred that even his mind will not let him rest?

His hand automatically reached for his cell phone and he dialled Gilbert again. One ring. Two. Three. Four. Five. Nothing.

He almost hurled the phone to the opposite wall. What was he waiting for? He knew he was anticipating something—he was hanging by a thread with suspense, but he didn't even know what he was supposed to expect.

And in the midst of that curiosity still gnawed at him.

_What was Gilbert doing calling him at two in the morning?_

His eyes widened.

All of a sudden—out of nowhere—he remembered crazy stories he had heard from who knows where—the internet, the news, rumours, even. He remembered stories of how people would just call someone in the middle of night—desperate for one last voice—but no one picked up the phone. And then the next day, the headlines were screaming, the news station were bubbling with fresh gossip, the tears rolled when they discovered that the person killed himself that night—

And once again, Arthur was running out of the bedroom door. Without even pulling on a pair of socks or even a bathrobe to cover his pyjamas, Arthur raced out of the house armed only with a bicycle to take him anywhere. Barefoot, chilled by the night, and absolutely frantic, Arthur pedalled as fast as he could out of his driveway and blindly toward what he almost remembered was the way to Gilbert's home.

_What are you doing? _

_What the bloody hell are you even _thinking_?_

The streetlights flew past him, not unlike how all colours and light and shapes whizzed around him when he was caught in Alfred's memories. Arthur felt sick to his stomach but he forced down any sensation as he forced his legs to work faster. Somewhere in his mind, he considered calling Gilbert's home phone, but he was afraid—somewhere in his mind he also realized how crazy he was, biking through the empty city streets, fearing the worst case scenario.

_But anything is possible, right?_

The roads were his to claim—he pedalled down the middle as if he was the sole parade. He flew past streets, trying to remember which way to Gilbert's house was the right way. One hand precariously gripping on the bicycle handle and the other trying to dial a phone number on his phone without toppling over, he shakily biked his way toward Gilbert's neighbourhood.

"Someone pick up," Arthur muttered as he heard the ring of the home phone. "Someone pick—shit!" He lost balance and crashed against the curb. The bicycle handle jerked out of his hand and he fell onto the asphalt sidewalk. His cell phone flung out from his fingers and slapped the sidewalk, splintering. "No!"

Arthur clambered onto his feet and winced, his ankle throbbing. He limped toward his cell phone and snatched it from the ground. It had shut off on its own, scratches marring the glossy surface. He jabbed the on button with his thumb.

"Turn back on, turn back on!" he urged through gritted teeth. Nothing happened. He felt too rushed to check the battery pack. "Bloody hell!" He shoved it into his pocket and hurried to his bike. He tried to continue biking with a twisted ankle, but his leg smarted too badly. Even his wrists hurt after he had tried to block his fall with his hands. "Bloody—!" He kicked himself off the bike and ran the rest of the way, the scratches and aches painful reminders as he forced his muscles to cooperate.

He ran while trying to lodge the battery back into the back of his phone while running. When he finally saw Gilbert's house in the distance, he sprinted so fast he could have won the Olympics even though his ankle was nearly killing him. He finally slid the battery into its proper place and turned it on.

"What should I do?" he moaned to himself as he limped onto Gilbert's driveway. Ring the doorbell? Climb through the window? _What was he doing here?_

He couldn't be sure. He wasn't certain yet—he couldn't just ring the doorbell and demand whoever came to answer the door that he had to make sure. He let out an inward groan as he ran to the backyard, trying to remember where Gilbert's bedroom was. He quickly dialled Gilbert's phone number one last time as he located Gilbert's window in the back of the house.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

Four—

"Artie?"

"Gilbert!"

Arthur nearly fell to the ground. He gripped tightly on the rough bark, trying to keep his cell phone pressed against his ear with his shoulder to free his other hand.

"What are you—do you have any idea what time it is right now?"

"Do you?"

"It's almost three in the morning! Gee, I didn't think you'd miss me that much, but—"

"Let's cut your dramatics a little shorter right now, Gil," Arthur said swiftly. "Are you home alone?"

"...what?"

"Answer my question."

"Arthur, what's going on?"

"I don't know. What is going on?"

"Stop that, Arthur."

Arthur gritted his teeth. "I'm being serious." He felt himself wobble and he gripped tightly to keep his balance, gulping. "Hey...let's take this conversation inside."

"What are you talking about?"

"Open your window."

In the darkness, Arthur could see the curtains of one of the windows part. Gilbert's face peered from the other side of the glass. If Arthur didn't feel like he was about to fall to his death, he would have greatly appreciated the horrified look on Gilbert's face when he saw Arthur balancing on the tree outside of Gilbert's window. Gilbert quickly pulled open the glass window, still holding the phone to his ear.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Gilbert hissed.

"What the hell are you doing, talking on the phone still? I can hear you perfectly now."

Gilbert blinked confusedly before realizing the uselessness of continuing the phone conversation and shutting it off. He hurriedly leaned out the window. "Get down. Now. You're going to break your neck."

"I'd love to," Arthur hissed back. "Problem is, I'm a little stuck here." He tried to shift his leg and nearly fell off the branch. There were certainly not enough sturdy branches on this tree to perch on without fearing for his life. "If you don't mind, I'd like to have permission to at least climb onto your roof."

"What are you—why—?"

"I'll explain everything once I'm not clinging for dear life on a tree branch," Arthur said swiftly. "Please?"

Gilbert automatically reached out his hands to take Arthur's. Arthur slowly edged closer toward the window, the branch wobbling threateningly underneath him.

"How do you propose we do this?" Arthur muttered.

"You're the genius who decided that climbing a tree was easier than ringing the doorbell!" Gilbert said frantically. "Don't lose balance, okay? And don't let go, either."

"What about phone?" Arthur said. "If I move, it's going to fall to the ground."

"Now will be the trying moment where you must choose between your phone and your life, Arthur."

"Point taken." Arthur gripped tightly on Gilbert's arms as Gilbert did the same. He shifted closer to the end of the branch, his heart thumping heavily as the branch shook.

"Okay," Gilbert said. "Now—try to reach your foot out to the windowsill."

"Are you kidding me?" Arthur blurted out. "What am I, a trapeze artist?"

"You're going to have to if you want to get out of this with all your bones intact."

Arthur winced before slowly straightening his legs. He tentatively took tiny steps toward the window, his nails digging into Gilbert's arm. However, the moment he lifted his foot to step onto the windowsill, he slipped off the branch and fell, only saved from terrible injury when Gilbert kept his grip on him.

"Crap!" Gilbert said, holding tightly on Arthur as the latter dangled over the bushes underneath. "Why did you do that?"

"What, you thought I fell on purpose?" Arthur said, flabbergasted.

"Help me out, won't you?" Gilbert said. "Use your feet and climb up against the house!"

Arthur struggled, swinging his legs until they met the side of Gilbert's house. Like a mountaineer, he pulled himself up into the window, crawling through and reminding himself of Winnie the Pooh as Gilbert pushed the window further open for him with his elbow. Losing his balance once more, Arthur tumbled into the room, crashing into Gilbert and sending the both of them to the ground.

"My word," Gilbert groaned, lying on the blue carpet. "Why do you have to be so _heavy_?"

"Why do you have to be so weak?" Arthur retorted.

Gilbert punched Arthur on the side. He sat up and closed the window.

"Did your phone survive?"

"I have it here," Arthur said. "It already got a beating when I was coming here."

Gilbert turned warily to Arthur. "Did you drive here or something?"

"I don't drive," Arthur said. "I biked halfway here. But then I faced some—ah—difficulties."

"What?" Gilbert said confusedly. Arthur waved a hand to brush away the subject. Gilbert's eyebrows furrowed and he brought his knees to his chest.

"Where's your phone?" Arthur demanded.

"Somewhere around here—I threw it somewhere," said Gilbert.

"Why didn't you answer my phone calls?"

"What?"

"I called you close to ten times. Why didn't you pick up?"

Gilbert blinked at Arthur confusedly. "You did?"

"No, I must have dreamt it," Arthur said dryly. "How could you not have noticed all my calls?"

"I left it in the room for a while," Gilbert said. "I was—outside my room for a bit. I must have not heard it." He rubbed his eyes to have an excuse to not look at Arthur. "Why did you call me all those times?"

Arthur said nothing.

"Why did you come?" Gilbert said.

"I was afraid," said Arthur.

"Of what?" Gilbert said slowly.

"I don't know."

Gilbert closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. Arthur hesitated before lowering his voice.

"Why did you call me first?"

Gilbert pressed his lips into a thin line. "I was scared."

"What were you scared of?"

Gilbert barely opened his eyes. He gave a wry smile. "I don't know."

They sat in silence. Part of Arthur wanted to tell Gilbert everything he saw—about how Puck brought Alfred's memory to him, how he knows everything now, how he knows that Alfred did not blame Gilbert or anyone for his death, it was all himself, himself, all himself...

"Look," Gilbert said the moment Arthur said, "Hey, listen." They both stopped immediately, begging that the other person would pick up what they were about to say first. Finally, Arthur gave in when he realized that Gilbert lost all motivation to say what he wanted to say.

"Are you okay?" Arthur said.

"Of course," Gilbert said calmly. "I'm fine."

"No you're not," Arthur said quietly.

Gilbert gave Arthur a strange look, but did not retort. Arthur bit his lip, unsure of what to say next. Alfred's memory had asked Arthur to help his friends—but how was he to do that if telling them the truth would only lead to denial?

"Why did you call me?" Arthur repeated.

"I really don't know, Arthur," Gilbert pleaded.

"If I hadn't missed your call and answered the phone, what would you have said to me?" Arthur demanded. "Would you have just hung up?"

"I don't know."

"You didn't call me just because you felt like it. You should be asleep now, of all things. Why aren't you?"

"I don't know."

"Something's bothering you, right? Can't you tell me?"

"I don't know."

Arthur quieted. Gilbert wouldn't look at Arthur, hiding his face in the shadows. The moonlight reached only half of the room where Arthur sat, leaving Gilbert obscured in the darkness. Arthur sat still for a moment before reaching toward Gilbert's cell phone, which was lying underneath his swivel chair.

"Hey."

When Gilbert looked toward Arthur, Arthur tossed his phone to him. Gilbert quickly caught it, slightly confused. Arthur pulled out his own cell phone.

"Call me," Arthur said sternly. Gilbert gave him a perplexed look. "Let's get back to the start, about forty-five minutes. Call me, and we'll pretend that I picked up my phone first."

Gilbert almost declined. He would have too, if it was any other person—any other night than this one—but to both his surprise and Arthur's, he flipped open the phone and pressed the dial button. As Arthur's ringtone blared, Gilbert retreated deeper into the shadows. Arthur hesitated before picking up the phone.

"Hello?" Arthur said. Gilbert fixed his gaze on the carpet.

"Arthur?" Gilbert said.

"Hey." Listening to his own voice in this conversation was absurd. He didn't know how he should speak. "What is it, Gilbert?"

"Arthur, I want to die."

Arthur immediately lifted his eyes to Gilbert. Gilbert would not look at Arthur. He sat very still, and his voice was calm and quiet—no fear or sadness or anxiousness. As cold as ice.

"Why?" Arthur said in a strangled voice.

Gilbert rubbed his forehead. He still would not look at Arthur. He did not speak at first, and he couldn't find the right words to say.

"I can't do this anymore," he finally said in a shaking voice.

Arthur's eyes darted around the room desperately, as if expecting to see a bloody blade or another empty pill container on the nightstand. He didn't realize that his hands were shaking as they held the phone.

"Gil," was all he could say, and just that already made him feel like he was breaking apart.

"I know what you're thinking," Gilbert said. He was trembling in the dark, his pale hair and face like a lonely moon in a starless night. "I'm taking the easy way out—or that I'm absolutely pathetic, or I'm selfish." He gave a wry chuckle. "But I know I am, I'm all three!"

He pressed a hand to his forehead. Arthur swallowed hard, his skin burning as he listened on. He didn't notice his hand lowering the phone away from his face. He could only listen, and only wish that he really did have miraculous powers to just make the world right again.

"I—I know I don't have any good reasons to want to because I—" Gilbert coughed, his throat thick and he tried to clear his throat without choking. He wiped his eyes with the back of his eyes and breathed in deeply. "I mean—after all everyone's gone through—what the hell am I thinking, wanting to die just like him? But I don't know how to keep going."

The world only consisted of them. There was nothing they could do to eradicate the loneliness and hopelessness that pained them, but they clung to each other's presence. They required little maintenance—who would give them the time of day?—but they were desperate to free themselves from the gnawing pain of solitude and fear that poisoned them.

"I shouldn't think this way," Gilbert said quietly. "I know I shouldn't. I shouldn't." His cell phone fell from his hand onto the carpet and he hid his eyes from Arthur. "But I feel like I ought have done myself in with him."

"Why?" Arthur croaked.

"Because I promised," Gilbert said hollowly. Their cell phones remained forgotten, the screens flashing with the long-past conversation still going on. "I made a promise that I would help Alfred no matter what, when I realized that he was hurting. I promised that I wouldn't leave his side—that I would be with him all the time to make sure nothing happened. I kept trying to figure out what the hell was wrong. I told Toris this, even. And now look what happened. He's dead—Alfred's gone. And I failed. I didn't even stay by his side this whole time."

The two boys stared at the ceiling now, trying to find wishes in the starless night. Their eyes were watching their past and present mingle into an ugly, enchanting masterpiece that was blinding to look at. They were watching for an answer.

"This whole time, I keep thinking that I should kill myself too," said Gilbert. "That I deserved it. That it would make things right—that Alfred would want that because I wasn't a good friend when he was alive...and I could make it up to him in death. And maybe then I can—can make right my promise. I'd be by his side, in a way, right?"

The more Arthur listened, the sicker he felt in spite of himself. How much more powerful a person's influence can be when they are long dead! It was as if nothing could ever finish—ever end—nothing ever freed—even by death. And not only the truth, but the twisted, half-formed thoughts the mind creates and nothing existing any longer to contradict.

"He hates me," Gilbert croaked. "I know it. I didn't do anything for him. You wouldn't understand, Arthur—you're always there for anyone—" Gilbert's word made Arthur want to throw up; they tasted so much like lies—"—you never give up on them. I just forced myself to forget about it, and now he killed himself, and now—"

"Gilbert Beilschmidt," Arthur finally spoke up, his voice strangely strong even though he felt so shaken. "You _have_ to listen to me."

Gilbert didn't raise his eyes to Arthur, but he was silent, which prompted Arthur to continue. "You—I'm going to be blunt—you're wrong." He was crazy for saying this, he knew it, but he could not sit back and let Gilbert convince himself what Arthur knew was not true. "Alfred didn't hate you. Alfred didn't kill himself because of you. He _did not hate you_."

"How can you be so sure?" Gilbert asked that one question Arthur was dreading.

"I know it," Arthur said. "It may seem impossible, but I know it. I know he didn't kill himself out of hatred for the world, or his family, or his friends. I'm not taking away blame—there are always factors around him that shaped his mind—but it wasn't you. He never would want you to die because of him."

"But how does anyone know anything about him now?" Gilbert said.

"He is your friend," Arthur said sternly. "From the beginning to the end. Just trust me on this, Gilbert. He was too afraid to burden you with his troubles. It was not the right thing to do, but he didn't do it out of hatred or resentment. You have to believe me."

"You never met him," Gilbert said hollowly. "How would you even know him?"

Arthur clenched his teeth. When he spoke, his voice just barely trembled. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"What is this?" Gilbert said. "What are you talking about?"

"Gilbert, please, just listen to me," said Arthur. "Where he is—after death—he won't feel hatred anymore. Isn't that what you believe in as well? After death, there isn't any more pain or fear or anger. This life on Earth is done with—there wouldn't be any reason to hold grudges or anything because everyone would move on. Whether or not you believe in anything after death—they wouldn't hold in anger. Not against you. Gilbert, I know I sound like I'm just blabbering on like that blasted counsellor that came in ages ago, but I _know _what I'm talking about."

"So what? You aren't telling me you had a spiritual enlightenment just now, did you?" Gilbert said in a low voice.

"I am. I am and I did," Arthur said resolutely. He didn't care anymore if anyone thought him crazy or demented. "If you die, Gilbert—if you kill yourself—you won't achieve anything. It won't help you achieve peace with Alfred. But that isn't the only problem here, is it? You won't be able to achieve peace with yourself."

Gilbert finally looked at Arthur. His eyes were not blank, but Arthur could not understand them.

"Alfred did not die with anger," Arthur said quietly. "There was sadness. Pain, even. Sorrow. All of that. But he did not die despising anyone, especially you. You are not a terrible person. You are no worse than anyone else. Stop putting yourself down because none of that is true. _Listen to me, Gilbert_. Killing yourself will do nothing. You want to make things right? Live. Live and make a difference. I know—there's nothing more you can do for Alfred's sake, whether he wanted it or not. But there are thousands of people out there in the world who probably feel the same Alfred felt when he was still alive. Those are thousands of people that need your help too. Maybe in your destiny or future or whatever you believe in, you were to touch the hearts of thousands of people and make them appreciate life more. All of those people would have nothing if you kill yourself now. Gilbert, Alfred is your dear friend and a person like no other, but you can't wrap your world around him anymore. He's moved on now, and so much you."

Arthur couldn't believe that all of that even came from his mouth in such short amounts of breath. He was afraid to look at Gilbert, but he did not take his eyes off of his friend. But even without actually _seeing_ Gilbert through eyes clouded with night time, he could almost feel the thoughts passing Gilbert's mind.

"It just—" Gilbert's voice failed him for a moment and he had to take in a deep breath to start over. "It just hurts me to think that he's gone for good. That no one will know him anymore."

"He will always be here," Arthur said softly. "And many people will come to know your best friend. Alfred has touched your life—not just through grief, I'm sure, but all your good memories and experiences and lessons you learned from him—and when you meet others and touch their lives, they will know the Alfred that's—that's _radiating_ from you now. They'll know him through you. He'll still be alive. Through you."

A tear finally fell from Gilbert's eyes. Somewhere from within he was cleaned out, no longer weighed down—something from within freed him from himself.

"I just wish I could talk to him one last time," Gilbert admitted.

"You can," Arthur said.

"What am I supposed to do?" said Gilbert. "Hold a séance? Purchase a Ouija board online?"

"Why don't you just pray, Gilbert?" Arthur said. "It will reach someone somehow."

Tears fell from Gilbert's eyes but his face was calm. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall, a private prayer brushing his lips. They sat in silence and this time Arthur was not afraid of it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was praying too. Praying for everyone's release from guilt. Asking for some sort of peace. Hoping for the truth to set them all free.

"Arthur," Gilbert finally spoke up after a moment of silence. Arthur lifted his head in the hazy darkness.

"Gil?"

"Arthur, I can almost feel him here again."

And for the first time in a long time, Gilbert breathed.

* * *

_Mattie?_

_Gil? _

_Toris, Lovino, Feliciano, Kiku..._

_...Antonio, Francis, Mom, Dad, Elizaveta, Ivan—_

_—Everyone. _

_I don't...really know how to say this. Or what to say, really. Ha, am I in your dreams? So by the time you wake up, you may or may not remember this...but I heard from Kiku that just because you forget something doesn't mean it is lost forever. Your minds? This is all in your minds, isn't it? But as a wise professor once said—just because it's happening in your mind doesn't mean it isn't real._

_Do you remember that Mattie? My word, we were so obsessed with those books. We'd read 'em every night, and we'd talk about them and imagine them and re-enact our favourite scenes from them...that was our childhood, wasn't it? _

_And you, Toris. You were there when we went to that midnight release for the last book. You were dressed up as a Death Eater for fun while I dressed as the hero, of course. That was when we first really got to know each other. I saw you and Gilbert duelling because he was the good wizard and you were the bad—and you guys were duelling, and I joined in, and my word, that was so long ago..._

_But those memories were great. When I was down, or when I was doubting humanity, I'd remember those carefree moments. You guys—hell, all my friends. Mattie, Toris, Gil, Kiku, even that kid I meant once—Tony—it just amazes me how you guys are _you_. How I can be so cynical but you guys keep me grounded. To the end._

_It may not seem like it, but you guys gave me hope until the end. I just couldn't live with it, though. _

_I don't know how long I've got. I have no idea when you'll wake up, but I better be quick because I know that Mattie is the lightest sleeper in the world and even a sneezing butterfly would wake him up. Mattie, I don't want you to wake up without me saying…saying what I want to tell you all. _

_I'm so sorry. _

_Don't blame yourselves. _

_It isn't you. It could never be any of you._

_Ludwig, I think you deserve a different kind of apology from me. I scared you, I'm sure, and I knew it the moment I was saying and doing all those things around you that foreshadowed my death. It wouldn't make a difference if you tried to talk to anyone about it—I'm a little glad that you didn't. At that time, I was too lost. But my word, I'm sorry I had to subject you to that. You knew I was lying, and you knew what I was really trying to say. That's more than a lot of people in this world. It's okay that you were afraid—I'd be afraid in the same situation. I wouldn't know what to do. _

_Don't try to burden yourself with any of that guilt problem. It's done now, and I am speaking from the heart when I say to you that I want you to move on from it. But remember it—enough that when you see someone hurting, you reach out to them. My portion of your story is done, so don't dwell in it anymore. Funny, huh? In school, we learn the lesson and are tested, but in life we are tested and then we learn a lesson. I think I heard that from a quote somewhere, and that's so true it sort of makes me wish I dropped out of school and became a hippie or something. Learn from this, and continue forth._

_Ivan, there are a lot of things I'd say to you, and truth be told, none of them are insults or rants or anything full of hatred. Who am I to say those kinds of things? I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I know that both you and I made bad decisions. I can't deny that at all. But I don't hate you. Not anymore. I mean, I used to back then, when I was determined to take out your influence over Gil and Feliks and all those other people, but now I've had time to reflect—I've had time to learn and I had my time to live enough to realize I was wrong to think I was any better than you are, or that you are any worse than I am. We are human—we do the wrong things, sometimes more than once, usually a lot of times. _

_But even though I'm sort of...not alive, I have to thank you for that. I have to thank you for helping me realize that the world isn't black and white—that just because someone does good things doesn't mean they can never have bad actions, and vice versa. You probably think I'm crazy for saying that, don't you? Especially since it was sort of that ideology applied to myself that made me want to die...but that idea was within me this whole time. And I had done my equal share of the fight just as well. None of the blame is solely on you. Maybe you don't love me now even when I'm dead and I have to admit I don't love you now after all is done, but I've come to terms with myself now. I know I'm not a perfect person, but I think now—after all that is done and I'm here—I know that I'm not a despicable human being either._

_Will you guys wake up soon? I'm afraid I won't have time to say everything I want to say. By Jove, I want to say so much, but I'll wait. I'll wait a hundred years and I won't complain_

_Lovino, remember that time when we were pretty young, somewhere in middle school, and we were playing all the time? You and Feliciano and Mattie and me—we were the two twins of the town and were terrorizing everyone. Playing pranks, hooting, laughing, fantasizing...Mattie and Feliciano were a little hesitant, but you and I—back then, we were a team. The older twins, the wiser, the stronger—haha, we were pretty conceited at the time, weren't we? I wish we didn't grow further apart as we grew older, but that's what life does, and that's how we'll live. But our laughs and our fun, and our childhood, really. You gave Mattie and me great nostalgia to reminisce on as we grew older. _

_As a kid, I stayed cooped up in a small town with no chances of moving out and becoming great, no awesome experiences that defined me apart from everyone else, no chance of living the big life in places like New York City or Los Angeles or London or Paris where amazing opportunities happen. But I had the best childhood in the world with you. I had the best imagination games that a child could ever have. I had my friendship with you back then that made it worth it. We grew older and we weren't as close anymore, but that's never your fault. It's no one's fault. It's just life and I just want to let you know I'm so glad that I had at least a little bit of time with you. You _are_ my friend, whether you deny it or not, and I will treasure that always. I know you'd be mad at me, or even hate me, knowing your personality and temper...but I'm sorry. I wish I could have said something to you—to anyone, sometimes, but I wanted you al to be happy. To be carefree. To not see the world in the strange, corrupted way I changed for myself. _

_I think it's almost dawn, so I can't stay long anymore. It's getting harder to say things now. __Toris, you are no doubt the nicest person in the world whom I could never deserve to be friends with. You helped me out in school work, in my love problems, in my family problems, in my personal problems—the list goes on and on and on and...if I said everything, I know you'd wake up before I'm finished and I wouldn't be able to say any more. I could never thank you enough for all the patience you have given me. I mean that in all sincerity. Never think that you had anything to do with me dying. You had much to do with me living, though. I would have died sooner if it weren't for you—spiritually, mentally, and physically. _

_You tried so hard for me, and even though I died, that doesn't mean your love was nothing to me. Even now I cherish it so much—I didn't deserve any of it but you did as much as you could and that just takes my breath away—that someone would invest so much trouble for me. I didn't deserve any of that. Especially since you all found out my greatest flaw, and yet you still gave yourself up as much as you could to help me out. Sometimes I wondered if you were a saint, you know—because at that time I had thought that everyone was intrinsically selfish, just like me. But you proved me wrong. I may have been a terrible person in this world, but you were the opposite. _

_How much longer until the sun rises? Could I just convince it to sleep in a little—to slow its morning chores? No more flowery words—everything I say will be the truest sentences ever made. _

_Gil, you _are_ awesome. I can tell when you said it because you meant it and when you said it because you were insecure. I just want to let you know that you deserve to say it with as much passion or sincerity as you can give it every time because that's the truth. You may think that you're at fault but I'm here to tell you that will never be true. You're my best friend and I wish I could have said anything to you that would put you at peace, or to assure you that this will never, ever be your fault and that I love you, kiddo. You're like my cousin—almost like a brother, even, if Mattie wasn't so great to just fill my heart up for that spot. There is nothing you could ever do that would make me hate you. If only I could have told you that myself at the time. You were always there for me even if you didn't think you were. Because of you, I wasn't alone. I died because of myself, but I would never, ever die because I thought no one cared about me—or that the world was a big black hole full of just plain rotting hatred. I want you to live and to become even greater than you already are now, and to just make this world an even more awesome place so that no one would have to believe the things I had believed at the time. _

_Mattie, you're the best brother I could ever ask for, even when I was a bullying older brother like always. How the world can be so passive about you makes no sense to me because I'm absolutely _crazy_ for you. I brag about you all the time and everyone wants to meet you. In due time, of course. They can wait, and they really want to wait the longest time so that you can live life out. Live your life, for Pete's sake, Mattie! Take your life by the reins and tear off those stupid reins and ride like the wind, Bullseye. Don't let me muzzle you or tie you down. I am your twin, Mattie, but I will always be with you no matter what you do or who you are, so don't be afraid to be yourself. Don't stay in the shadows anymore. You are worth so, so much more than that. _

_Whenever I had problems I couldn't hold in, you'd be there to listen, underneath our blanket tent while we roasted marshmallows over Mom's lavender candles. __Thank you for everything, Mattie. For understanding me, even when I didn't want you to, or at least I seemed like I didn't, but inside I really did. For putting up with me, even when I didn't talk or I wanted to be alone, which in fact I was secretly afraid of. For reading past my cheerful sentences or silence that never really let anyone else but you know what I was thinking. You'd find me anywhere, and you'd come to me there too. I said I never wanted anyone to find me anymore, but that was a lie. I wanted you to find me, and you always did. I think you knew that about me already. You know so much about me, and I don't regret it. I really don't. I wish I could've done the same for you, Mattie. I wish I could've been the one to chase after you when you think the only escape is to run away. I know I caused a lot of your pain and I wish I could take it all back. I'm sorry, Mattie. I haven't been there for you then, but let me be there for you now. _

_And…Arthur?_

_Yeah, you. The British kid with the really thick eyebrows. I never met you, but you know a lot about me, don't you? I don't really know what to say to you other than that this whole situation is kind of…awkward, to say the least. I mean, you practically saw everything about what happened to me, didn't you? Yeah, I saw that, you and your strange voodoo magic or whatever you did. _

_…I wish I could have met you. You seem like a really nice guy. I really, really wish I could have known you. But now, at least this way, you know me a little, and you'd learn something. I want everyone I know to learn something from this. Everyone—the world isn't as bad as a place as you think it is. I died thinking I was a rotten person, and I'm not denying that I hurt people, but that doesn't mean that there isn't any hope. I learned something too, you know? While I am here—after I died. We all have second chances to make things right. And third chances. Fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, seventy-seven times. It isn't like, after your second mistake you are no longer capable of helping people out or doing the right thing. I mean, your mistakes aren't erased, but that doesn't mean you should stop helping the world. There are so many people in the world that need just as much love as I did. Understand them. Teach them a lesson. Give them the best childhood they could possibly imagine. Be their best friend. Help them. Love them. I've had my time with you all, and you've all had your time with me, but my time is done now. The fact that you all remember me so much months after I died is touching, but spread your love to others. I can't do much anymore, but you can do so much more for others if you moved on. You are all such great human beings, even with your faults, a little or a lot, and it would be a crime if no one else could see that for themselves._

_You all deserve more than an apology from me._

_So..._

_Thank you. _

* * *

**"Sometimes faith, feels like doubt  
And sometimes I wonder if we'll even get out  
Sometimes life hurts just like now  
But you gotta know, it's all gonna****come back around.**

**I wish you well**  
**I wish you well**  
**On this trip to find yourself**  
**I wish you well**  
**Wish I could help**  
**But I can't help you find yourself…"**

**-Thousand Foot Krutch, "Wish You Well"**


	17. Tonight

**This chapter is dedicated to Autumn Johnson and Amelia Shambaugh, whose lives were tragically ended exactly one week ago in a shooting in Ohio. You two will forever be in our hearts and memories.**

* * *

**"There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with."**

**- Harry Crews**

Matthew stood at the doorstep for who knows how long before finally unlocking the door and stepping in. He kicked off his shoes silently; it almost sounded like no one was home.

His father was in the kitchen, resting after a long day of work. The moment Matthew stepped into the kitchen, father looked up from his newspapers (A local family's veteran son is returning home after a long and noble five years of service) and spoke.

"How was your day, Mattie?"

Matthew looked up, a little surprised and somewhat dazed. He let his backpack fall to the ground next to the kitchen table before grabbing a pear from the fruit bowl.

"Good?" his father pressed on.

Matthew cocked his head a little to signify that he wasn't sure of the answer. A good day or a bad day, he could never tell—every day had its sunshine and every day its raincloud. Every cloud with a silver lining. Wasn't that what they said? He vaguely wondered who came up with such a strange comparison. He imagined a cloud decked with diamonds, strutting across the sky, and he cracked a smile.

"Good," he said. His voice did not sound strange to him anymore. Nor did it sound like Alfred's. It rang loudly in the kitchen—it sounded like Matthew Williams Jones. "Today was fine. You?"

His father almost jolted in surprise, but he was too consumed with joy to express any shock. The smile on his face made everything worth it to Matthew. Maybe, for him, it was like a father's reaction when his first child says 'Daddy' for the first time. Matthew had died—in a way—for months, if not nearly a year, and now here he was again. He was the one breathing, heart beating, living again. And he would treasure every moment of it.

"It was fine. Quite normal," his father said, and Matthew relished it. A typical day was something he longed for, and for once—today—he finally made it. A spring day—where everything was alive, alive, alive. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Well, we are ordinary people, aren't we?" Matthew said as he cut the pear in half and handed one half to his father. His father took it, but didn't take his eyes off of his son. Matthew almost thought that his father looked a little proud, which he had to admit, was rather silly. But it made him happier nonetheless.

"What do you want for dinner?" his father asked. "Your mother will be home for dinner tonight, so I thought I might cook something special today."

Matthew unzipped his rucksack and extracted his homework books. He paused as he was about to pull out his mathematics textbook as he crunched on his pear.

"Salmon burger?" Matthew said. "Is that okay?"

"Sounds great," his father said. "If you're hungry, you can have a light snack or something."

"I'm fine. I need to do homework," Matthew said, hoisting his textbooks into his arms. "If you want any help making dinner, just holler for me."

"Will do, thanks," his father said. Matthew ascended the stairs to his bedroom and the conversation ended, just like that. But it was a conversation nonetheless, the longest he has ever had with his father. And if he took baby steps, maybe he would be comfortable enough to even talk about his feelings to his father. To apologize for never saying a word to him for weeks upon weeks. To no longer be afraid to tell the truth.

But that would be another day. Not today, but most certainly—yes, most definitely—another day.

* * *

Gilbert was nervous.

What a coward, he thought ruefully with a ironic smile. Too afraid of the truth?

No—he was no longer bound to fear anymore. He refused to be. Fear had caused him enough problems itself, and if he really wanted to have nothing to be afraid of anymore, he had to be willing to break from his shell—this shell that has been so stubborn and protective for who knows how long and that only one (Ah wait, two; he shouldn't—couldn't—forget about Arthur. It had been already an few odd months since Arthur and Gilbert spoke in the dead of night.) could ever crack.

He knew that there wasn't much point in keeping anything secret anymore. Besides, scars rarely disappeared, though they may fade into memories. They will always be a part of him, and he no longer wanted to keep every part of him a mystery that no one would know until he realized at the end of his life that he never let anyone truly know him.

But—perhaps he can blame it on human nature that he was so anxious. Telling the truth meant giving a part of him away, no matter how ugly it was, and he was afraid if it was rejected. He was afraid that if _anyone_ saw this dark part of him, they would turn away.

He wasn't confident. That was the truth. He was certainly not comfortable with the idea. These scars embodied his cowardice, his pain, his fear, his secrecy, his distrustfulness, every flaw that made him up. He had hoped that if he just kept the sleeves over them, he could pretend he was a little closer to being perfect. But that wasn't who he was. He wasn't perfect and he knew it. Why should he lead others on to believe that?

"Do I hold it like this?"

Gilbert looked up quickly and snorted when Ludwig was trying to prop the violin up on his elbows. "How you reached that conclusion, I have no idea. Here—" He shifted the violin until it rested on Ludwig's shoulder and under his chin. "That's how you do it."

"I feel like you could get a terrible cramp in your neck or shoulders by this," lamented Ludwig.

"A little pain for some awesome music? I think that's a risk worth taking."

Ludwig tentatively poised the bow over the strings. When the strings barely touched, he winced at the scratching sound that erupted from the small instrument.

"I feel like I'm going to break this thing," Ludwig said.

"That's because you're so bulky," said Gilbert, smiling wryly. "It's times like these where fragility has an advantage, Mr. Incredible. Here, you're holding the bow wrong." He guided Ludwig's hand until the bow was positioned properly. "Try again. And make sure you don't move the bow in zig zags or anything. One straight line."

Ludwig played the violin as quietly as he could. A tremulous sigh escaped the violin's lips, like a graceful crane crooning to the moon. Gilbert pressed his lips together, almost a little too wary to smile in case it would scare the music away. Ludwig tried playing different notes by pressing down on the strings, but the strings immediately squawked reproachfully and closed their mouths.

"Not bad for a first try," Gilbert said. "Aren't you sorry you didn't learn to play violin and chose…cake baking?"

"Never. And you aren't either. You'd starve without me," Ludwig said quickly. Nowadays it felt as if he almost let the words just burst out of his mouth before he had time to think, just so he could buy time to converse with Gilbert more. To hear Gilbert just say a word to him with a smile on his face was something Ludwig was almost unused to, but held precious.

"Hey, it's five o'clock," Gilbert said, flipping open his cell phone. "Don't you have to go study for finals now?"

"Already five?" Ludwig said. "Shoot, I'm late…" He dragged his rucksack off of the coffee table and shoved on his shoes. "I'l be back by eight. It's Physics today, so it'll take a while."

"Don't stress yourself out that much, you still have about five days until finals week," drawled Gilbert.

"But I have six subjects to study for!" Ludwig said. "I can't cram!"

"Goody-two-shoes!" snorted Gilbert. Ludwig rolled his eyes and slung his rucksack over his shoulders. "Now go and take care of Feliciano, you good ol' father."

"I'm not acting like a father to him!" said Ludwig. "I'm just a friend."

"He's practically your family."

Ludwig let out a bit of an exasperated chuckle. "_You're_ my family, idiot, no matter who comes along or what we do. I'll bring back dinner, all right?"

He searched through the tiny hanger next to the garage door for the car keys. Even though he was younger than Gilbert and learned to drive later than him, Father entrusted the family car to Ludwig due to Gilbert's haphazard manner of driving. He pressed the button to open the car door and was about to close the door behind him when a voice reached out to him.

"West."

The word spilled out of Gilbert's mouth before he had time to react, but he did not draw back with surprise or regret. Ludwig turned around, raising his eyebrows curiously.

"Hm?"

"When you come back—er, at least, when you have the time," Gilbert said calmly. He was surprised he wasn't stuttering, but then again—he wasn't afraid. Not anymore.

Who had time in life to be afraid, anyway?

"When you have time, can we talk? About—something?" He tugged unconsciously on the hem of his jacket sleeve that masked his lightening scars.

"Sure, what's it about?" asked Ludwig.

"You agree to it before you even know what it's about?" quipped Gilbert.

"Well, if you want to talk about anything to me, I'll listen," Ludwig said simply.

The corner of Gilbert's lip tugged to form a crooked smile. "It's a long story. And a little personal, too."

Ludwig glanced at the time on his watch. It was already five ten by now, but he could just tell that Gilbert wanted to speak to him badly, as if he was finally breaking down the stone cage that he hid in, and who knows if Ludwig could stumble upon another chance like this? Feliciano would understand; besides, contrary to popular belief, Feliciano was quite adept at physics. He was a Renaissance man that no one really expected.

"I have time now," said Ludwig.

"…Yeah, I don't really know how to squeeze this into five minutes length, though."

"No, that's not what I meant," Ludwig said, chuckling. "I meant, I'm not going to go study now."

"Whoa, hold it," Gilbert said. "Don't change your whole schedule of life according to me. I thought you were stressed out about physics. Be sensible."

"I am. There are five more days until exam week, right?" He closed the garage door and returned the key to its rightful place. "Besides, it's physics. I'm not that terrible at the subject."

Gilbert chewed on his lip, unsure of whether to be relieved or wary for Ludwig's grade's sake. But he didn't—or realistically, he couldn't—stop Ludwig from dropping his rucksack on the ground and returning to the living room they were originally in, waiting—hoping—expectantly. Gilbert sat down next to him on the couch, his heart jittering.

They were quiet for a while, waiting for the other to ease their way into the conversation. However, Ludwig didn't even know what the conversation was about and Gilbert didn't even know how to bring it up. All of a sudden the fears of rejection nearly paralyzed him, but Gilbert took a breath and relaxed. Ludwig was family no matter what either of them did. Ludwig wouldn't turn away.

He finally pulled the sleeve up, revealing his arm riddled with secrets. Ludwig did not cry out or draw back in shock or disgust. Instead, he gently took Gilbert's arm, running a thumb across the faults. He looked up with imploring eyes, but they did not beg. They waited for him.

"Why?" was all he said with a quiet but calm voice.

Gilbert took in a deep breath.

"Let me tell you about it."

* * *

"It ain't biting."

"You aren't even trying, Lovino."

Deep in the nature park near the edge of town, two identical boys with auburn hair sat on the wooden bridge that stretched across a creek, their thin legs dangling over the water and their toes barely skimming the bubbling surface. One of them held a very thin stick with a long red thread tied to the end, tickling the water with a scrap of meat tied to the other end. The other was lying on his back, his arms folded underneath his head and breathing in the fresh scents of summer.

"Not my fault my fishing pole broke."

"I did _not_ do it on purpose."

"Still broke it."

The younger brother props himself up on his elbows, exasperatedly blowing his single curl out of his face. The gentle current drags the meat around, and whatever tiny fishes waddled through the water was steering clear from the trap.

"Even if you had a normal fishing pole you wouldn't catch anything."

The elder shot a glare over his shoulder before flicking ground beef in his brother's face. The younger broke into a grin before wiping the raw meat off of his collar and smearing it on the back of his brother's shirt. They squabbled playfully on the bridge, dirtying themselves with anything possible from the bait to the dirt speckling the bridge. Meanwhile, a guppy nibbled on the meat before darting away.

"Can you believe it, Lovi?" he said, slapping back on his summer hat. "It's finally summer holiday. We're done with yet another school year!"

Lovino dragged the meat around in the water. "It took ages."

Feliciano smiled and edged closer to Lovino. Lovino glowered at his stubbornly fruitless fishing pole before lifting it out of the water.

"How are you feeling?" Feliciano asked.

"Fine." It was cursory as usual, but there was at least no anger embedded in his voice. Feliciano cocked his head a little.

"You've been talking more as school began to end."

"Are you complaining?"

"No, no!" Feliciano waved his hands frantically. "I'm…it makes me happy. Really happy." He lowered his hands, his face softening. "Are you happy?"

Lovino shrugged. "Happy I got out of the Music Theory final alive, that's for sure."

"You know what I mean, Lovi."

Lovino stole a glance at Feliciano before focusing on tying a larger morsel of meatball onto the string. "Ask me this later, can't you?"

Feliciano recoiled slightly, his eyes saddening. "You aren't happy?"

"I'm content and yet I'm _not_, you know?" Lovino said brashly. "I mean, I'm not angry or anything, but I know not everything's all right."

"Are you still worried about your trigonometry final?"

"That's not what I'm talking about, idiot," Lovino said. He lowered the fishing rod. "Look at us, Feli. How old are we now, eighteen? We've grown up—we've grown older. Hell, we _graduated_ from high school. Can you believe that? We're university students now. We're going our separate ways—we might not see any of these people again. We're going to grow up and have lives—what we always described as our futures will be our reality. We're going to marry a pretty lady, raise families, and—and _live_."

He threw his hands in the air, nearly whacking Feliciano in the face with raw meat. "We're living in the outside world now. We aren't going to be protected by parents or have perfectly followed rules like in high school anymore. What we've been doing for the past eighteen years—sure, we were living, but that ends. We're going into something that will be with us for the rest of our days. We can act like kids all we want, but now we're grown up, and we can't change that. We've got to stand on our own two feet."

He lowered his hands resignedly, the fishing rod clanking on the wood bridge. He stared off into the distance, almost ashamed of what else would come out of his mouth, but daring to say it.

"And I guess sometimes I think, gee, Jones isn't ever going to see this," he said. There wasn't sadness in his voice, or resentment, or bitterness. Calm, calm acceptance.

"And he knew it too," said Lovino. Feliciano did not nod condescendingly or make any move to comfort or pity Lovino. He understood too, that Lovino was not saddened, but reflective. "He knew it when he left. Didn't he care about what was on the other side of the wall, though? Like, how life could've ran after high school? Maybe things change. Maybe the age of miracles returns—who knows?"

A tawny swift sang on a lofty tree branch, gazing down at the two brothers with pearly black eyes. Somewhere in the distance its companion responds with a twirling twitter.

"The more time passes, the more we sort of realize how much time we could have had with him around but now we can't," said Lovino. "He knew that, didn't he? That we'd notice?"

The swift flows down to the berry brush beneath the branches and pecks hungrily at the knot of magenta berries. In the water, a cluster of fish gathered at their feet, nibbling at their toes.

"I guess it just makes me wonder…where he would be right now, if he was still around," said Lovino casually. "Would he be partying it up after we've graduated? Would he have passed the English final? Would he have been with us right now, fishing with this—crappy—fishing rod?"

"Does it make you sad?" asked Feliciano.

Lovino looked at his brother and shook his head. "There's no point anymore. It's done. I'm not sad or angry or any of that. I just…wonder, now."

He craned his neck so that he faced the sky, where a net of tree branches sieved the sunlight. Something small falls into the water with a velvety plop, but it is enough to send the swift taking wing and flying off into the mess of leaves. The fish scatter as well, diving behind pebbles and fallen branches.

"Besides," said Lovino. "I think he's happy, now. At least, I don't think he's sad anymore, or angry, or disappointed. He did what he wanted to do, and that was his choice, whether he thought of the future or not. And I guess if he made it, that's what he wanted."

Lovino drew his feet out of the water and crossed his legs Indian-style. "And we have our futures to think of too, right? Yeah, we shouldn't forget him, but…well, we shouldn't forget _us_ either."

Feliciano gently pushed himself off of the bridge and into the stream. The water only came up to his calves and didn't come near wetting his shorts. Every color seemed so vivid—the thousands of shades of green, the deep blue of the sky that rivaled any eye, the rich brown of the soil, and the beauty of every flower and leaf in magnificent hues. If he had lived in a world of white, could he even imagine—no, _fathom_—such miracles? How could Earth be so lucky to be graced with such wonders?

He closed his eyes.

He relished the sensation of the mud between his toes, the cool water tickling his skin, the wind's fingers and the sunlight drenching him. The smell of wild trees and water, the sound of the trickling stream and the distant greetings of birds. He didn't need a roller coaster or a parachute to remind himself how incredibly alive he was. To think—that in those months while they were in shock and fear of death, they had completely forgotten that they themselves were alive.

What a strange revelation: _They were alive_.

And every second was never wasted.

"Where'd all the fish go?" said Lovino.

* * *

It was in the dead of night, and no one was supposed to be there.

But they were.

The parking lot was lined with flashlights and a scented candle or two, and many, many cell phone and iPods glowing with weak fluorescent light. The air was thick and warm with summer, and it was far from quiet. People were chatting, gasping, reminiscing together, underneath the stars. There weren't too many people, but neither were there too little.

It started off with only Arthur and Matthew, who decided to meet together on this evening to talk and reminisce. Then somehow Gilbert got a whiff of what was going on and informed Ludwig, who was with Kiku at the time, who told Yao, Mei, and Feliciano, who dragged along Lovino, who mentioned it to Antonio, who brought Bella and her older brother, who told a computer whiz Eduard, who made it a Facebook event and fished tens more people. The shock Matthew and Arthur had when they realized their small get-together bloomed into a community news was almost amusing. But that's what communities do.

One of them Arthur recognized, but he didn't know him. He hesitated at first, unsure of whether or not it was smart to approach him, but in the end he didn't have to be the one to make the first move. The person turned and spotted Arthur, and before Arthur could even digest what was going on, the person was making his way toward him.

"Aren't you the one who started this event?" he asked.

"No, it was actually—what's his name again?—Eduard, from my school," said Arthur, searching his face. It was a little different from the last time he saw it, a little darker and a little older, but it was the same nonetheless. "Er—I'm Arthur Kirkland, pleasure to meet you."

"Makisig Patanindagat," said Makisig, taking Arthur's hand and shaking it.

"It's great to see you here," Arthur said, and he meant every word of it.

"Did you know Alfred?" asked Makisig.

Arthur thought about it for a while before shaking his head. "No, unfortunately. But my classmates told me a lot of stories."

Makisig nodded understandingly, and they resumed in quiet, watching everyone else converse with a flashlight or candle in their hands. Arthur licked his dry lips, dying to make conversation with the person whom he had thought of until now as a phantom, someone he saw but never actually meet, until Makisig beat him to it.

"He was a nice guy, Alfred," Makisig murmured, gazing at the people around him. Arthur shot a curious glance at Makisig from the corner of his eyes, but did not interrupt. "I wasn't friends with him, but he was a nice guy."

"Was he?" Arthur said lightly.

Makisig shrugged a shoulder and nodded. "I can't say I liked him when I knew him," he said bluntly. "Not at all. But in the end he was never a bad guy. He just made bad choices."

"Did you hate him?" The words were so childish and so tactless, but Arthur couldn't help it. He just wanted to know.

Makisig raised his eyebrows. "Hate him? Hate's such a strong word, I don't even want to use it jokingly." He exhaled deeply and stuck his hands into his pockets. "I hated the things he did, the things he said, and sometimes the things he believed. But I never hated him." He bit the corner of his lip and sighed. "I wish he knew that, too."

Arthur wanted nothing more than to ask Makisig if in the end, he took Alfred's apology. But he didn't need to—he could tell already.

And somewhere along the way, someone brought a box with them.

"I don't really know why I brought it," admitted Kiku, holding it up. "But I thought that…well, it's a parking lot with no cars, that's a lot of space to draw or anything."

It was a plastic box of sidewalk chalk, with fat pieces of pastel-colored chalk scattered inside. Arthur peeled the lid off the box and peered in it.

"There are only seven pieces, though," Kiku said apologetically. "It's rather old, and the chalk is already used up a bit."

Arthur turned a piece of light blue chalk in his hand, a smile on his face. "No, it's fine. It's completely fine. This can work."

"What can work?" Matthew asked.

"The chalk," said Arthur noncommittally.

Matthew furrowed his eyebrows slightly. "We're technically not part of the school anymore. Are we allowed to vandalize their pavement?"

Feliciano laughed. "It's summer! What do we have to worry about anymore?"

Toris craned his neck to the sky, where specks of hazy stars clouded the black. "July the fourth," he said in a faraway voice. "His favourite date."

Ivan squeezed Toris's shoulder gently. Toris did not turn away or show any fear, for he had none.

"I think," Arthur said, replacing the chalk, "that everyone ought to have a go with the chalk. It'll be a release. It'll be a relief."

"What'll we do with it?" asked Antonio.

"Anything. Everything. It's his birthday, isn't it? Wouldn't he love to have a party where we all just act like kids?"

"Be a little smarter, Artie," Gilbert said. "We've got as many as…as fifty people out here. How are seven pieces of stubby chalk going to last us all through the night?"

"Aren't you willing to take that great leap of faith?" Arthur said with a grin. "We'll manage. We could drive somewhere and buy more, if we have money—if we want to. But I think we can do it."

Gilbert raised an eyebrow skeptically, but Arthur did not back down. He held it up higher to Gilbert's eyes.

"Can't we?"

Gilbert let out a feigned exasperated sigh and laughed. "Do it. If it works, I'll be an earthworm. But go ahead and try."

And suddenly, the whole parking lot exploded in color.

Arthur watched as his classmates, his neighbors and friends, and people he didn't even know share the pieces of chalk with each other as they scrawled on the black rough pavement. Some drew fascinating artwork of flowers, moons and stars, any landscape imaginable. Some drew faces that resembled black and white photographs—faces so inviting but so long gone, so far away.

And many wrote.

Wrote letters, words, poems, confessions, everything in chalky color. Arthur watched as people crouched on the ground and wrote a message to Alfred in the black rock before passing it to someone else. The chalk grew smaller and smaller, but out of them came thousands of truths, emotions, and expressions.

_I wish I knew what you were thinking—_

_—I sometimes forget that you're dead and it shocks me all over again—_

_—Was it my fault?—_

_—Why didn't you talk to me?—_

_—Nothing's been the same—_

_—I wish I could have told you how much you meant to me before—_

_—I have a hard time writing this, but I have to tell you now instead of never—_

_—I wish I knew you better—_

_—I think about you all the time—_

_—Why did we have to grow apart?—_

_—There are so many things I want to say to you, that you could have done, that you could have seen but it's too late because you're **GONE**—_

But as the chalk was passed and as time passed, the blacktop was barely visible beneath the powdery words that were engraved in everyone's hearts. Reading them made Arthur's eyes sear and his throat tighten, and yet he was smiling, smiling so hard that it hurt, because he felt like he ran a marathon. They did it—_yes_—it is done. They made it.

_—I just want to let you know that you were always amazing, always a smile and full of laughter that made me so happy every day—_

_—You have no idea how much you meant to me so let me tell you now—_

_—Do you remember that time we went to homecoming together?—_

_—I don't know you too well but what I'll remember forever about you is your smile—_

_—Your life is so precious to us and we'll always remember you—_

_—We'll see each other again, so get ready, okay?—_

A flurry of color, of hope, of redemption just whirled around them, engulfing them like spring, like renewal and a fresh page to write on. This was their hope. This was their survival.

_—I value my family even more now—_

_—I've stopped taking people for granted—_

_—I want to help people more now—_

_—I've stopped cutting—_

_—I found my faith again—_

_—**I forgave you**—_

And that was it. He was crying. Arthur was crying, but he was so happy that the tears outlined his lips stretched so wide in a smile. Everyone around him was healing—he saw Toris and Ivan together by the candlelight, their heads bowed and eyes closed in a midnight prayer. Lovino was hugging Antonio, but their eyes were glittering with stars instead of tears. Makisig passed the white chalk to Kiku, who then passed it to another person, to another, to another. And Arthur was sobbing and he didn't even know why, as someone held him tight and this someone Arthur didn't even know who they were, but neither of them cared.

And even the sky began to cry.

Rain first fell like snowflakes, gently and sparingly. Then, without warning, it came in bucketfuls, as if they were stuck underneath the Niagara. Everyone screamed and whooped and laughed as they were drenched head to toe with rainwater. The candles were snuffed out and the electronics were hastily stowed away before they could malfunction. They danced in the stars, ran barefoot, lifted their hands to the sky and yelled gibberish. They were children of the world, still hurting but now healing. They were still kids.

As the rain grew heavier, everyone linked hands so that no one would be lost in the night. They formed a long chain that encircled the parking lot so that no one would accidentally slip or wander off into the streets. The streetlight cast a dim amber glow on their heads like a fire. Everyone's hands were ashy with chalk, pressed together and letting the rain wipe away their tears.

"Look!" yelled out Antonio. "Look, the rain! It's washing away all our chalk!"

"That's okay!" laughed Feliciano, his voice loud above the rain. "That's okay! That just means Alfred already read it all!"

They squeezed each other's hands tighter, watching as the heavens wiped away their messages and gave them a fresh, clean slate. Some people sang, others horseplayed, somewhere in the corner they were dancing. They were all alive.

Arthur discreetly slipped his hand out of the link and into his pocket. He pinched between his fingers a very meager piece of yellow chalk. He was surprised there was any chalk left, but somehow the seven made it through everyone. Everyone except him.

He bent down to the ground. No one really noticed. He held the chalk tight in his hand, making sure the rain would not dissolve what little chalk he had left. What could he say to Alfred? He looked up at the sky, raindrops streaking his face and hair until it clung to his skull. The whoops and voices of his friends surrounded him and it sounded like a song, almost. It sounded like hope.

He hovered over a small patch of pavement so that he could quickly scratch the chalk. In small words, he etched his last words into the ground before the piece of chalk cracked in his fingers and disappeared into grit.

_Thank you._

Seven pieces of chalk.

Ordinary children.

Whispered memories in the rain.

* * *

_Your life dreams are shattered_

_ You're gone away  
We've cried here for hours  
And the hours turn to days_

We know you regret this  
Leaving us here  
With portraits and memories  
That we've held so dear

When I hear your name, it's not the same  
No matter what they say, I'm not okay  
And we started at zero and went different ways  
Now we're all out here wasting away

And if we started at zero  
Then how did things change?  
It seems like just yesterday  
We were the same

It's been three months since you left us  
So far nothing's been the same  
And my question without answer  
Is am I the one to blame?

And he was such a good description  
Of a favored future man  
He spoke well of other people  
And they said the same for him

When I hear your name, it's not the same  
No matter what they say, I'm not okay  
And we started at zero and went different ways  
Now we're all out here wasting away

And if we started at zero  
Then how did things change?  
Feels like just yesterday  
We were the same, we were the same

And we started at zero  
And went different ways  
Now we're all out here  
Wasting away, wasting away  
Wasting away, wasting away

And we started at zero  
And went different ways  
Now we're all out here wasting away

And if we started at zero  
Then how did things change?  
Seems like just yesterday  
We were the same  
We were the same  
We were the same

_-Hawk Nelson, 'Zero'_


End file.
